


Spanish Gold

by Shadowcatxx



Series: Pirate Duology [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Attempted Sexual Assault, Crossdressing, Drama & Romance, Family, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutual Pining, Navy, Pirates, Religion, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: Italy 1740. Antonio Fernández Carriedo became a pirate to seek revenge. He intended to leave everything behind in order to achieve his goal, including the only family he had ever known. But his plan goes array when he finds Lovino Vargas stowed away in his cabin, refusing to be left behind. Antonio's role had always been to serve and protect the spoiled, reckless lordling. Not take him to sea. Not put him in danger. And definitely not feel anything for him except platonic devotion. But Antonio had never been able to tell Lovino no.
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: Pirate Duology [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744441
Comments: 85
Kudos: 102





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
> 
> Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language, as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. Please note that 'Spanish Gold' is a sequel to 'Fortune's Favour', but it can be read separately. It's also a re-edited re-post from Fanfiction.net. Thank-you all for your time and interest. I hope you enjoy! :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

SPAIN — Antonio Fernández Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ROME — Roma Vargas

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

AMERICA — Alfred Kirkland

CANADA — Matthew Kirkland

* * *

**COAST OF SPAIN**

**1740**

Bright morning sunlight filtered in through the diamond windowpanes, painting the captain's bed gold. It licked the Spaniard's eyelids as he stirred, sighing and shifting in wakefulness. He was lying half-naked atop the sheet, snuggled up to the body next to him. It was warm and slight and inviting. He felt safe in the sunlight, comforted by the ship's slow bobbing, peaceful in his bedmate's embrace. He buried his nose in silky hair that smelled like white roses and garden herbs, and leant closer to—

Antonio's eyes snapped open.

A beautiful young Italian boy was hugging his torso, his legs tangled with Antonio's, his head resting on the captain's chest. He was wearing Antonio's old, threadbare shirt, which was too large for him. It hung limp over his body, exposing the bronze skin of his shoulders and collarbone, slipping up as he shifted and revealing a provocative amount of smooth thigh. The sun showed his tan-lines; the breeze carried his scent. He muttered incoherently in his sleep, bathed in gold like an ecclesiastic motif. It made his chocolate hair shine, made his eyelashes look gilded. His soft lips pressed gently to Antonio's skin, murmuring the captain's name. His breath was hot, quivering as he spoke. It was a prolonged moment before he sighed deeply and opened his eyes, revealing hazel irises that smiled drowsily up at the Spaniard.

Antonio swallowed, suddenly very awake.

"Lovi," he said cautiously, "why are you in my bed?"

Lovino blinked, then abruptly leapt up. "I, uh—I just got cold!" he lied, fumbling back. Too close to the edge of the bed, he lost his balance and tumbled onto the floor.

" _Ach_ —!"

His cheeks blushed tomato-red as he untangled his limbs from the sheet and rubbed his backside. Antonio chuckled.

"D-Don't laugh! If it bothers you then you should've woke me up!"

Antonio watched with fondness as the boy stumbled and sputtered. _You're not a bother_ , he thought tenderly.

And that was exactly the problem.

_I shouldn't be feeling this way_.

Lovino was the eldest son of Antonio's Italian foster-family, his father's heir and his grandfather's legacy. He was the boy whom Antonio had been raised to serve and protect, the lordling he had watched grow-up. Antonio had been ten-years-old when Lovino was born. He had been one of the first allowed to hold the screaming, disagreeable baby; the first to successfully rock him to sleep. He was such a cute child back then, with curling hair and rosy cheeks. Now he was an adult and he was— _beautiful_.

Antonio watched the seventeen-year-old crawl to his feet, swaying as the ship bobbed. Lovino had always been a clumsy boy, needing—but refusing—assistance. Antonio was the only person aside from Feliciano whom Lovino let into his personal-space, and the only person allowed to help him. Antonio didn't know why Lovino had always gravitated toward him, ignoring the host of servants, attendants, and schoolmasters his father employed, but he didn't mind. It made him feel special to have the boy's trust when no one else did. It made him feel needed, necessary. It made him feel things that he shouldn't.

He knew he shouldn't reach for Lovino, but he did.

"Come on, Lovi. It's too early to be awake," he said, pulling the sheet up over Lovino as he crawled back into bed.

_I really shouldn't indulge him_ , he knew, his fingers lingering at the boy's warm nape, toying with an errant curl. _Shouldn't spoil him. Shouldn't like his touch so much_ —

"Stop it," Lovino muttered, slapping blindly at Antonio's hand. He was already half-asleep.

Lovino had always been quick to anger and even quicker to surrender, so non-confrontational in the end that it was sweet. He had pride in his breeding, fire in his blood, and a sharp tongue in his mouth, but he was not as prickly a person as his reputation suggested. Beneath his biting defense was a sensitive boy who tried his hardest to mask his emotions, because he couldn't hide them and he couldn't not feel them. Beneath the spoiled, self-centered attitude was a tender-hearted boy afraid of rejection, a boy who felt things more deeply and passionately than anyone Antonio knew. It's what he loved most about him. His passion and his devotion. His actions, not his words. The person favoured most by Lovino's loyalty was Feliciano, his dear younger brother. The only other person was—

_Me_.

_He loves me_ , _I know he does. But he shouldn't_.

Antonio sunk back into the mattress. The feather mattress that was in need of re-stuffing, because it was not meant for two people. It was lumpy and shapeless, and Antonio should've cared but he didn't.

_How did this even happen to me_? _I left Italy for a reason. It wasn't supposed to follow me._

He looked down at Lovino, snoring softly beside him. He looked peaceful and vulnerable, so much younger than he did when awake. Antonio wanted to touch him—pet his hair, stroke his cheek, feel the whisper of his breath—but he resisted the urge. It had been nearly four years since he had found the Italian scion stowed away in his cabin. Four years of worry, stress, and fear. Four years of trying not to fall in love with someone he had loved all his life.

 _You're not supposed to be here_ , _Lovino_.

_It would be so much easier if you weren't._


	2. One

**CARRIEDO**

**ROME, ITALY**

**1735**

Tonio, you can't leave, you've only just arrived!" cried Feliciano.

He was a beautiful child, a fairytale prince with terracotta locks and big amber eyes that sparkled with tears. A flamboyant ten-year-old whom Antonio would have guessed was younger if he hadn't known the boy since birth. If he didn't know that Feliciano was a sweet, clever boy with an aptitude for art and language, who loved to sing and dance, and whose biggest secrets were sneaking into the kitchen to spy on the cooks and wearing women's clothes in private. Antonio was going to miss playing with him—Feliciano was always the princess, Lovino the villain, and Antonio the dashing knight. He was going to miss teasing the boy's good-humour, reading and riding and dancing with him, and holding him whenever he was sick or sad or scared. Antonio might have only been a ward of the Vargas family, an instructor and protector of the young heirs, but he was really going to miss Feliciano, because he wasn't just the second-son of Italian nobility: he was Antonio's little brother in every way that mattered.

"When will you return?" the boy asked, clutching Antonio's coat.

The truth was _never_ , but Antonio didn't say it.

Instead, he knelt down and smiled. "Once I've made my fortune," he said, squeezing Feliciano's hands. "I'm going to hunt for Spanish gold, the rarest and richest of all!"

Feliciano giggled when Antonio tickled him, tears catching in his long eyelashes. He was so easy to cheer up, unlike his sullen older brother.

_Where is Lovino_? he wondered.

He surveyed the courtyard, white-washed by the noontide sun. Aside from he and Feliciano, his foster-father stood on a stone esplanade.

Roma Vargas was the patron of a long, illustrious bloodline. A doting grandfather to his only two grandsons, with a fierce reputation in the business world that was dwarfed only by his unapologetic love of parties, luxury, and general over-indulgence. And children. Roma had a habit of finding orphans of questionable lineage when he was out of country, and then bringing them home to the exasperation of his long-suffering advisors. Antonio had been one of those orphans, and had always considered himself to be one of the luckiest children in the world. He was grateful to Roma. He adored Roma. He didn't want to say goodbye to Roma, even though he knew it was time.

But Roma was flanked by armoured sentries, who put the young Spaniard on-edge. He didn't trust them and hated the thought of leaving Lovino and Feliciano to their protection. It made him not want to go.

Antonio tried to close his mind to the memory, the horror he had witnessed nine years ago. He clenched his jaw so hard he tasted blood in his mouth. But the sentries were soldiers in the service of the Vargas family, sworn to guard them. They wouldn't dare hurt the family heirs—would they?

Suddenly, Antonio wanted to see Lovino. He needed to know that he was safe, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

_He's hiding from me in spite_ , he knew.

Lovino had made his feelings about Antonio's departure perfectly clear: "I hate you!" he had shouted, kicking Antonio's shin before running off.

That had been two hours ago and no one had seen him since.

_Maybe it's better this way. If I don't bid him farewell_ , _I won't have to see the look on his face._

It was selfish of him, but, more than anything, he didn't want to ever be the reason Lovino cried. Instead, he would cherish the memory of Lovino's smiling face as he set sail for Spain. Whenever he thought of Lovino it would be with fondness, not regret. It would be the boy's chortling laugh, his mischievous hazel eyes, and his touch, which was never as harsh as his words.

_I'm really going to miss him_ , he sighed, even as he hugged Feliciano.

Lovino had always been a disagreeable boy. If Feliciano was sweet-tempered like Italy's climate, then Lovino was the ferocity of its long, bloody history. He was rude, stubborn, aggressive, childish—

_And he's always been my favourite_ , he thought secretly.

Antonio waved to Feliciano and Roma from the deck of his Spanish sloop, _El Escape_. She was an incredibly fleet ship that cut like a knife through the temperamental Mediterranean, built for stealth and speed, but not for long overseas voyages. She wasn't particularly attractive, and had been in need of costly repairs when he bought her, but he had chosen her impulsively the moment he saw her name glistening on the side, because _escape_ was precisely what he needed.

As the sloop left the harbour and his childhood home disappeared, Antonio's smile fell from his face and he sighed. When the helmsman asked which direction, he gestured vaguely west.

"The best place to seek Spanish gold is in Spain, don't you think?" he joked half-heartedly.

"I'll leave her to you, Miguel," he said, clapping his first-mate's shoulder. "I just need a minute."

He headed straight to the captain's cabin, fighting down a tinge of homesickness that he had never been able to entirely quell.

_I was thirteen_. He clenched his fists as the memory resurfaced, as it did every time he left Italy, reaffirming his reason for leaving. _Thirteen the last time I saw you_ , _my brother._

It was hard not to feel homesick when a piece of your home had been missing for thirteen years.

_I'm so close now_ , _Fran. So close to fulfilling my promise._

Antonio had waited four years after Francis disappeared. The first time he left he had been seventeen-years-old; Lovino had been seven, and Feliciano five. And neither of them had understood why Antonio was leaving them, too. Feliciano had cried. But Roma understood.

"There's nothing left for me here," Antonio had lied. Roma hadn't argued.

He hadn't apologized or tried to bribe Antonio or talk him out of it. He just pulled the young Spaniard into a hug, and said:

"I'm proud of you, Antonio."

Antonio had almost broken down right there. Instead, he squeezed his foster-father tight and brief, and then gently pushed him away.

"It's time I forged my own way in the world," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I can't stay here relying on you forever."

He neglected to mention the life of piracy he had chosen, plaguing merchant ships—not unlike Roma's—and terrorizing the royal navies of multiple countries, but he suspected that the Italian knew more than he let on. Besides, not all of Roma's business transactions were strictly legal either. But more than anything, he didn't want Roma to see him for what he truly was:

_Just a no good scoundrel_ , he smiled ruefully.

Antonio had never had a real family or home; didn't have anything the Vargas family hadn't given him. And he had repaid their charity by becoming a criminal. (He had even had to borrow money from them to buy his ship.) Francis had been the one who fit into the family; Antonio never had. And then one day Francis was gone, leaving his foster-brother with nothing but two toddlers and debilitating night terrors. Antonio had done his best for Lovino and Feliciano, but he knew in his heart that Francis would've done better. He knew that Francis had been the favourite ward, preferred by every member of the Vargas household except for Roma, who had never played favourites. He knew that Francis would've made better decisions, cultivated better relationships, and not dishonoured the family—if only he had been given the chance. Antonio had often wondered if the Vargas' regretted that Francis had left and not him. He wondered if they ever wished their places had been switched—and then one day he had overheard Vargas Jr., Roma's son, say as much. Francis had always been more paternal, more artistic, more reliable, and just cleverer than Antonio. He was better at languages, better at politics, better at playing whatever role the Vargas family needed him to. And he did it with a smile. The family didn't always treat him well, but Francis never argued, never complained, and never fought. Antonio had always been the fighter, until the night he needed to be and failed.

Antonio had never forgiven himself for that night, and he wouldn't until his promise to Francis' memory had been fulfilled.

He sighed again, feeling weary, pushed open the cabin door—

—and found a dark-haired boy leaning out the window, watching Italy's coast shrink away.

" _Lovino_?"

Lovino pulled his head back in. He was dressed like a sailor—or, what he must have _thought_ a sailor looked like based on the theatre: a long-sleeve white shirt, tied at the collarbone; black trousers with knee-high boots; and a crimson sash that cinched his slender waist. The clothes were too big and made him look like a prince playing pauper; like a noble trying to slum it with the common folk, but forgetting to change his speech, his scent, the arrogant way in which he regarded the world.

_Fuck_ , _Lovi. Is that supposed to be a disguise_?

The boy's smug grin infuriated Antonio. His hazel eyes smiled as he crossed his arms in defiant victory, very pleased with himself for tricking everyone.

"Welcome aboard, _Capitano_ ," he said.

"No," Antonio wagged his finger as he entered the cabin. "No, no, and no! What the hell are you doing here, Lovino? You _can't_ be here! Your family's going to have a fit when they find you gone!"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Lovino dismissed. "I left a note saying I was going with you—"

" _No_!" Antonio said angrily, as he considered the delicate twelve-year-old in front of him.

_They're going to think I kidnapped him_! he panicked.

Even if the family overlooked that, if they decided they trusted Antonio with Lovino, the open sea was still no place for a child! Nor was the dangerous life of a known pirate! Not that the Vargas family knew Antonio was a pirate, Lovino included, but that was worse! Lovino had never even left Italy. He didn't understand the outside world, didn't realize how many things could—and _would_ —hurt him. He was an innocent, spoiled _child_.

"You have to go back," Antonio repeated, turning quickly on his heel.

He reached for the door handle, but Lovino moved suddenly from the window-ledge and sprung across the cabin.

"No!" he cried, grabbing Antonio. "I'm not going back! I'm going to Spain with you! I've already made up my mind—"

"And you've made up _my_ mind without telling me!" Antonio snapped. He glared down at Lovino, revealing more fear than anger now.

_If anything were to happen to you I would never forgive myself_.

"You're not a sailor, Lovino. You're Roma's heir. You have a home, a family, and responsibilities. You have a good life waiting for you. Don't throw it away on a stupid, childish—"

"Do you hate me that much?" Lovino shouted. "Is that why you left? You just wanted to get away from me?"

"Of course not! My reasons for leaving are my mine, Lovino Vargas, because, like it or not, my entire life does not revolve around you! You are twelve-years-old now, so act like it! This selfish behaviour needs to stop! And _you_ "—Antonio threw Lovino over his shoulder without warning—"are going back home whether you like it or not!"

Lovino did not like it.

He kicked and pounded on Antonio's back, yelling curses at the top of his voice, but the captain didn't flinch. And neither did the crew when Antonio paraded out on-deck. A few sailors glanced up, but most went about their business as usual, unperturbed. There wasn't a single soul in the Vargas' village who hadn't witnessed fights between the Spanish orphan and Italian lordling before; none who hadn't seen Antonio chase Lovino down the street, and then carry him back kicking and screaming. No schoolmaster who hadn't needed Antonio to fetch Lovino for his lesson. No priest who hadn't seen Antonio clap a hand over Lovino's mouth during mass. No guest who hadn't heard Antonio's babbled apologies as he hurried after the fleeing, fuming boy.

Antonio had learnt all of Lovino's tricks over the years, so it was a true testament to his shock and panic that he managed to wriggle free of him now.

" _Oh_ , _you did_ not _just bite me_!" he yelled, shaking the pain from his hand.

Lovino raced across the deck, dodging sailors, who moved habitually aside, no more hindered by the boy's antics than by a seagull's.

" _Lovino_!"

Antonio cursed when Lovino disappeared below-deck. 

At the galley, the cook nodded inside and then proceeded down the corridor, whistling in disinterest.

Antonio prepared himself for a verbal battle, then entered.

"Lovino?" he called, calmer this time.

The boy wasn't difficult to find, hiding behind a tomato barrel against the wall, his knees pulled to his chest. His face was hidden, buried in his arms. It was a defensive position, which surprised Antonio, who had expected an attack.

"Go away," came a small, trembling voice. "You don't want me anyway."

"That's not true," said Antonio, kneeling beside him. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "If this were a vacation or a tour of the islands then I would bring you, Lovino, you know I would. I love your company. I've taken you aboard _El Escape_ before, don't you remember? We sailed to Sicily. And even though poor Feliciano got seasick, we still had fun, didn't we?"

Lovino mumbled noncommittally.

"I did," Antonio smiled. "I had so much fun with you. I always do. But it's not a vacation this time, _chiquito_. This time it's real and it's dangerous and you could get really hurt."

"So could you," Lovino said softly, lifting his head. His gold-flecked eyes regarded Antonio sadly.

Antonio swallowed the lump in his throat, flattered by the boy's earnest tenderness. "Yes, I could," he agreed. "But I'm not nearly as important as you."

"You're important to _me_."

Lovino glared up at Antonio, teary-eyed, as if he were the source of much trepidation.

"You just left us, Toni. You've been leaving us since I was seven-years-old, and you never tell anyone when you'll be coming back—or _if_ you're coming back. Francis left and never came back," he said, without knowing how the words stung the Spaniard, "but I don't really remember him. I remember _you_ , Toni. I remember that _you_ stayed, and you were there always with us. With me.

"Feli has always been the favourite," he said, looking down, "and that's fine. He deserves it, he's a wonderful person, but you... You're the only person who ever liked me. While everyone else was fawning over Feli, you were with me, Toni, chasing after me.

"I know I'm difficult," he admitted, cheeks heating, "but you're the only person who likes me as much as Feli. Maybe... maybe even _more_ ," he hoped, blushing redder. "You're the only person who understands me. That's why I don't want to lose you. If I go back now, I'll just be the boy who's tolerated but not loved. I don't want that. And I don't want you to go, because..." Lovino bit his lip, swallowed. "You're the only person who's ever really wanted me... I thought," he said, angry in self-defense. "I can't just let you go without knowing you'll come back. Not this time, you—you jerk!"

"Lovi, I..."

Antonio tried to embrace Lovino, but the boy refused.

"If you can look me in the eye and promise that you'll come back," he said, blinking away tears, "then I'll go home and wait for you. But if you can't"—he glared at Antonio's guilty face—"then you'll have to throw me overboard, because I'm not leaving this ship. Let Feli inherit the family, everyone will be happier with him anyway. I don't care if I ever go back."

That said, Lovino buried his face in protest.

Antonio sat back on his heels and sighed. "You can't just disinherit yourself."

"I can abdicate," came the mumbled reply.

They sat together in silence while Lovino sulked and Antonio thought. He was used to the boy's stubbornness and had learnt long ago how to outlast it. Patience and silence were Lovino's biggest weaknesses. A fight or demand would only fuel the boy's angry aggression; quiet impassiveness was what coaxed him into surrender—or negotiation, at least. Antonio was the only person who could pull it off—Lovino simply walked away from most people—because he didn't just indulge the boy, he understood him. He loved him.

_If he stays here he'll be a constant distraction to me. He'll demand my attention_ , _like he's doing now. I'll have to take care of him_ , _keep him safe in such an unsafe place. He's not just a child_ , _he's a lord. He deserves better than this and he'll_ expect _better than what he gets. He'll have to pull his weight_ , _which he'll hate. He's not diligent_ , _and he's not strong. And I have so much work to do._

 _I can't give him the attention he wants_ , _not here_.

In Italy, Antonio was Antonio: Roma's ward and Lovino and Feliciano's dear brother. But on _El Escape_ he was Captain Carriedo: pirate, thief, killer.

"It's not just about you, you know," said Lovino, lifting his head.

Antonio cocked and eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I'm ready to leave home. I'm not a baby, I want to see the world. You left when you were seventeen, so you must know what it feels like. And you've been sailing for years, so you're the right person to take me. I _want_ to do this, Toni. I want to see things and do things and learn things. I'll even work," he promised. "I'll be your cabin-boy, and I'll be really good at it, you'll see. I won't be a burden, okay? So, just... let me stay."

Antonio wanted to argue. The cons far outweighed the pros of letting Lovino stay aboard, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. He had no trouble lecturing or scolding or arguing with Lovino, but he had never been able to tell the boy _no_ when he asked for something. Honestly, earnestly asked for something his heart wanted. Those pretty hazel eyes looked up at him, scared but determined, and it tugged at Antonio's heart in reply. And he knew:

_I would give him the whole world if he asked for it_.

" _Fine_ ," he said before he could stop himself. "You can stay. But—" he interrupted Lovino's celebration, "—it's not a vacation, okay? You're going to work while you're here. And you're going to obey me. Your rank means nothing here, Lovino. I am the captain and my word is law, understand?"

"Yes," Lovino said, trying and failing to look annoyed. His eyes were sparkling, smiling.

As Lovino scurried back to the captain's cabin to make himself comfortable, Antonio heaved a deep, tired sigh. Babysitting wasn't something he had factored into his pirating plans, nor his hunt for revenge, but he couldn't help the small smile that snuck onto his face. The feeling of homesickness had ebbed since he found Lovino stowed in his cabin. It would likely only make it harder to leave him when the inevitable time came, but for now it was worth it to have a piece of home with him. His favourite piece, too.

_He's going to hate this_ , he knew. _He's never worked a day in his life. He'll hate ship life more than anything he's ever hated before. Once he realizes how much better his life in Italy was_ , _he'll beg me to take him back. It won't be long. I just have to keep him safe until then_ —

" _Ah_!" Lovino shrieked. He slipped on the deck and crashed backwards into Antonio's waiting arms, clawing at the captain's coat for balance. "Stupid waves," he muttered.

Antonio shook his head. And smiled.


	3. Two

**CARRIEDO**

**CORSICA, ITALY**

**ONE MONTH LATER**

TONI! You bastard— _let me out_!"

Antonio loaded his pistols, ignoring Lovino's irate shouts.

" _El Escape_ has a high keel, she'll catch her prey amongst those shoals," he pointed, first to the French cargo ship they were chasing, then to the breakwater.

The first mate, Miguel, nodded, equally unperturbed by Lovino's tantrum on the other side of the captain's door. He pounded his fists angrily, shouting, but the bolt held firm. (A deadbolt Antonio had installed specifically to keep Lovino in.)

As Antonio discarded his heavy coat, he heard a scraping sound, then a clang against the doorframe: steel on iron. He finished buckling his belt, then opened the door and plucked the cutlass from Lovino's unsuspecting hands. "Thanks," he said, too distracted to consol the boy's injured pride.

"No—Toni, wait!" Lovino begged. "I want to come, too!"

" _No_ ," said Antonio sternly. He caught Lovino around the waist and hauled him back into the cabin, dumping him on the bed. "Stay," he ordered, then strode out, bolting the door behind him.

Lovino raged from within, voice wet with emotion.

"Captain," said Miguel, "if we fire the long-nines to disable the cargo ship's rudder—"

"No," Antonio dismissed. "If we fire the cannons then she'll fire back. It's an invitation to battle, which is not what I want. I want to stalk her for as long as possible and then take her unaware, run her aground. _El Escape_ is fast. As long as the wind stays with us, we'll catch them without taking damage."

"Yes, but the odds of a battle are in our favour," Miguel argued. "That ship doesn't maneuver well. If we fire the canons—"

" _I said no_!" Antonio snapped. "I won't risk it!"

Miguel glanced at the captain's cabin, where Lovino was raging, and slowly he nodded in understanding.

"Yes sir," he said. "No canons."

* * *

I hate you! I hate you! _I hate you_!" Lovino screamed when Antonio returned. He took a pillow from the bed and fired it at the Spaniard. "Why did you leave me here? I wanted to go! I could've helped, err— plunder that ship," he finished uncertainly.

Antonio hadn't _told_ Lovino they were pirates, but the boy wasn't stupid. He could feel the ship pick-up speed on a chase, could hear the crew's excitement, their adrenalin and aggression, could smell the gunpowder, could hear the crash of a sinking ship, men yelling—screaming—he could see the spoils of piracy in the hold of _El Escape_.

"I could have done _something_!" he insisted.

"Yes, you would have done something, Lovi: you would have distracted me."

Antonio pulled off his wet shirt as he talked, trading it for the dry one Lovino handed him.

"You're not a swordsman," he lectured the boy, "you have no schooling in combat, and I'd bet my boots that you've never fired a pistol in your life. You would've been nothing but a hindrance to me and the crew. Just a target," he said, facing the scowling boy.

Antonio was average height, which was taller than Lovino, who was slender to the point of delicate. He was a pretty boy, healthy, but there was no strength in his body. Antonio watched him plant his hands on his hips and glare without yielding.

"When I agreed to let you stay aboard, you promised that you would obey _my_ orders. You promised to work under _my_ command, yet you've done nothing but sleep and get under-foot. It's been a month, Lovi, and you haven't even learnt to sail. You haven't leant anything!"

" _Obviously_ not," Lovino returned, miffed. "Because _you_ haven't taught me anything! You've barely spoken to me since I got here—"

"I'm busy!" Antonio burst in exasperation. "I told you that a month ago! I put Miguel in charge of your tasks. He was supposed to teach you to sail, but you refuse to listen!"

"Miguel isn't _you_. I'm under _your_ command, not his. I promised to obey _you_ , Toni, so why should I have to take orders from anyone else?"

Antonio grit his teeth. " _Holy Mother_ , _give me fucking patience_ ," he muttered, crossing himself, then carded a hand through his dark, curling hair.

"Teach me swordsmanship."

"No."

"But I really want to learn!" Lovino pressed. "I'm really good with my hands, I'll learn fast!"

_Yes_ , Antonio thought, _you're good at calligraphy and sculpting and braiding flower stems_ , _but your hands are not made for combat._

Lovino's hands were slight, like the rest of him. The fingers were long, the nails clean and polished, and the knuckles unscathed. They were hands made for intricate, artistic pursuits. Not a labourer's hands. Not strong enough to work or fight. He was more likely to hurt _himself_ than his opponent. Antonio had seen Lovino kick the helmsman in the shin, then limp away cursing, his toe bruised on the stiff, tarred leather and metal buckles of the man's boot. He didn't think and that was the problem. He acted on impulse, forgetting things like how doe-skin slippers were soft and comfortable, but offered no protection to the wearer's feet. He often forgot that metal got hot in the blistering sun and grabbed it with ungloved fingers, trying to prove himself a man, but ended up sucking scalded fingers like a child. He forgot his size when his pride was hurt and was easily goaded into challenges and ill-advised bets, then found himself tripping and tumbling and, once, trapped inside a crate because he wasn't strong enough to push off the weighted lid. It frustrated Antonio. He snapped at his crew for teasing the boy, because he couldn't bring himself to snap at the boy, himself, even though it was Lovino's fault. The crew were careful never to place the boy in actual danger—Lovino took care of that all on his own, disregarding his own limits for the sake of pride.

_How do I refuse him swordsmanship lessons without insulting his pride_? he wondered. Even if Lovino did learn the technique, Antonio would never let him test it in battle.

But, again, the captain heard himself agreeing to give Lovino lessons. Again, he couldn't refuse Lovino when he looked so hopeful.

_If it makes him happy and keeps him focused_ , _what's the harm_?

"We'll start tomorrow before breakfast—"

" _Before_ breakfast?"

"Yes, it's the only time I can give you. It's before breakfast or nothing, Lovi. Unless you're not serious about learning swordplay?"

"No, no, I am! I want to learn!

"Thank-you, Toni."

Antonio was taken off-guard by the sincerity in Lovino's eyes.

"You're welcome," he said, and meant it.

* * *

The next morning—before breakfast—Antonio roused Lovino from a deep, drooling sleep.

"Lovi, it's lesson time," he said, shaking the boy's shoulder.

Lovino's bed was an eiderdown mattress on a low wood frame, the posts tied with thick ropes to keep it from moving, and piled with pillows. It was nicer than Antonio's bed, despite being smaller. And it was located in the safest place in the cabin, away from the window and door. The cabin offered no privacy with two occupants, but neither one minded overmuch. After twelve years, neither had bodily secrets to hide.

" _Mm_ , _go away_ ," Lovino murmured, burying his head. " _S'too early_."

"Lovi, I don't have time to waste today. If you're going to sleep-in until noon, then I can't teach you. I'll ask Miguel or Jorge to—"

" _No_ , _no—m'here_ , _m'getting up_." Lovino forced himself onto his elbows, hair mussed, and blinking in the sun. "I'm not taking orders from a— _yawn_ —second-in-command. I'm— _yawn_ —still a lord."

"Uh huh," Antonio mused, passing Lovino an armful of clothes. He combed his fingers through the boy's soft hair as Lovino yawned and tugged on his boots, then led him out on-deck.

Lovino stretched his arms, reaching high overhead and arching his back like a cat. The motion lifted his half-buttoned shirt, revealing smooth, pale skin. The unblemished skin of someone who had been protected all his life. But he took the epée that Antonio handed him and slashed with gusto, awake now with the salt spray and wind all around him. He wielded the duelling sword like a whip, swinging it in small arcs as he danced back-and-forth like he had seen stage actors do. Antonio did his best to correct his posture and footwork, but Lovino persisted with what he thought it should look like, rather than what it should feel like to hold a sword, and a mistimed dodge had him falling sideways. He crashed into the bulkhead and landed on his rump with a loud: " _Ow_!" The epée landed a few feet away.

" _Fuck_ ," he cursed, waving his hand.

"Hey!" Antonio biffed him gently. "Don't curse. Let me see it," he ordered, taking Lovino's hand in his.

A closer inspection revealed a sliver that had lodged itself painfully under the boy's fingernail. Lovino pulled back and bit his lip, even as his eyes watered.

"Come here," said Antonio. He sat on the deck and gestured for Lovino, who apprehensively sat down beside him. "It's okay, just a scratch. I'll get it out. Don't move."

"Wait—what are you doing?" Lovino panicked when Antonio removed a small knife from his belt.

"It's okay," Antonio repeated, unsheathing the blade. "It's not going to hurt."

Lovino's body was tense. He held his breath as Antonio inserted the very tip of the blade into his skin with a jeweller's precision. He cut a shallow exit for the sliver in the soft fingertip, then lifted it to his mouth and sucked.

Lovino gasped. " _What are you doing_?"

He started to pull away, but Antonio held firmly. After a moment, he removed Lovino's finger from the wet heat of his mouth and plucked out the sliver, which had been sucked to the surface.

"See?" he said brightly. "No harm done."

Lovino wiped the saliva off his finger without looking at Antonio, his face flushed.

"Ready to continue the lesson?" Antonio asked, rising to his feet. He offered a hand to Lovino, who ignored it, but that was hardly unusual. He shrugged and collected the boy's epée, offering it hilt-first.

"On your feet, lordling," he ordered.

* * *

**VARGAS**

Antonio taught Lovino how to manipulate the epée's lightweight. He held Lovino's wrist and guided his movements, letting the boy familiarize himself with the feel of it. He repositioned Lovino's stance, and—this time—Lovino let him. He didn't resist when Antonio corrected him and tried not to fall back into theatrical flourishes. He kept his attention on Antonio's demonstrations. Antonio, who looked more natural and graceful than any actor.

"Keep your back straight and stand sideways, you're a smaller target that way. Keep your stomach tucked in, and angle your hips like this," he said, shifting Lovino's weight, warm hands on his hips. "Not bad, Lovi, but you need to relax. You're way too tense. Your movements should be more fluid—like dancing," he said in example. "Remember your dance lessons? Combat is like dancing, you move in the same way."

His hands went to Lovino's waist and lower back, warm and callused and familiar.

"Keep your legs spread, but don't straddle. You want to be light on your feet, but always keep them under you, otherwise you'll—" the ship hit a wave and Lovino fell, "—fall," he finished, catching the boy. "You still haven't got your sea-legs yet," he teased, supporting Lovino with strong hands.

"O-oh," said Lovino inelegantly.

His heart was pounding and he didn't know why. He felt hot.

He pushed against Antonio, wanting to be away from him, which was odd, since he had never not wanted the Spaniard's attention before. In the twelve years they had been together, Antonio's touch had never bothered him. The whole Vargas family was physically affectionate. It wasn't strange for hugs and kisses to be exchanged between family members, or shared with guests, or even to spy a private moment between lovers.

"Humans need to be loved," Roma said. "Words are very good, but a touch or gesture is worth more. It says more than words do."

The Vargas family were not embarrassed by affection, like many others Lovino had met. He had seen fathers merely nod to their sons in approval, no smile or words or affirmation of any kind. He had seen young children cower away from their mothers, hiding in the more familiar skirts of their nursemaids. And he had seen grandparents so far removed from the business of their families that they couldn't remember their grandchildren's ages. But that was not the Vargas. Lovino's family practically lived on top of each other and were in each other's business day and night. No decision was made without everyone's approval, no matter how long it took. No secret was kept for longer than a week. And no one was left without support. Yes, they argued and complained about each other, but they belonged to each other, too. Family feuds were a commonplace thing in the world, but Lovino couldn't understand it. Why would someone deliberately seek to hurt the people they loved? Or—didn't all families love each other like the Vargas did? Whenever Lovino heard someone talking about hating their siblings he just stared at them, because he couldn't relate. Whenever someone bad-mouthed their household, he frowned, because why would you hate the people who took care of you? Once or twice a business rival had tried to stir discord within the Vargas family, and once or twice that person had ended up in a bad way: once in court, twice in a ditch. By the time Lovino was ten-years-old, it was only a foreign fool who tried to take on the Vargas family, because everyone _knew_.

"Family is forever," Roma had told Lovino and Feliciano, holding them both on his knees. "It won't always be easy. You'll fight and sometimes you'll cry, but you'll never hate, because hate isn't for family. Family is love, and love takes care of each other no matter what."

"Family is Father and Mother?" Feliciano asked. He was four-years-old and his eyes were filled with wonder.

"Yes, of course."

"And aunties and uncles, too? And Signore Rossi? And Cook Bruno? And Marino and Bianchi and Costa and Signora de Luca?"

"Yes, everyone who is a part of our home is family."

"And Toni?" Lovino dared to ask.

Roma's smile was gentle and proud. "Yes," he confirmed, laying a hand on Lovino's head. "And Toni, too."

Lovino curled his fingers against his chest, now. He could still feel the hot, slick heat of Antonio's mouth on his skin.

It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did.

A brother's mouth, his saliva, should be disgusting, but not bothersome. A brother holding his hand or hips or waist shouldn't make his heart pound, but it did.

Antonio's touch had always been that of a caretaker, someone who soothed and played and protected. And it still was. Here on the ship, he didn't do anything out of the ordinary. He looked at Lovino and touched him the way he always had. He was _family_. So—why then?

_Why do I feel like this_?

_Why is my heart beating so fast_?

Lovino didn't like it. He didn't like change. So, he did what he always did when he was feeling unsettled: he started a fight.

He yelled at Antonio and lied to him, telling him he was a horrible teacher. When he fumbled, he blamed it on Antonio and threw down the epée. Antonio bent to retrieve it for him, but Lovino snapped:

"Don't! I'm done for today! This is stupid!"

Antonio blinked. "Al-right," he drawled. "Well, I think you did well considering this was your first lesson. I'll make a swordsman of you yet."

He tried to ruffle Lovino's hair, but Lovino dodged it. He didn't want Antonio to touch him.

"Hungry?" Antonio asked, frustratingly cavalier.

"No," Lovino said, and stomped off.

He closed himself into the captain's cabin and went to the window, where he liked to sit. He pulled his legs up to his knees and looked out at the shining water. It was going to be a beautiful day, jewel-blue seas and clear skies, but Lovino felt irritable. Sick, even. He wasn't hungry. But his stomach wouldn't stop fluttering.

* * *

**COAST OF SPAIN**

**FIVE MONTHS LATER**

No! No—you're not leaving me, not again! I've been practising! I can— _Toni_!"

Lovino reached the cabin's door just as Antonio slammed the deadbolt into place. He tugged on the handle, but it held, locked from the outside. It barely even rattled as he hammered on it.

"Open the fucking door!" he yelled.

_El Escape_ was after an English ship this time. A huge ship, twice the size of the sloop. It was returning from the colonies and was no doubt bursting with valuable cargo. Lovino could hear Antonio's crew shouting aggressively, the promise of a fight heating their blood; the promise of loot making them greedy. He heard pistols firing excitedly until Miguel barked at them not to waste ammunition. But Lovino didn't care about the crew or cargo, he only cared about _El Escape_ 's green-eyed captain, who had strapped on his cutlass, loaded his pistols, and left Lovino in an angry panic.

_Why did you teach me swordsmanship if you were never going to let me fight_? _I'm just as much a member of this crew as anyone else_!

Lovino had been diligently practicing his swordplay every day for months, now. He was good. He wasn't very strong, but he had mastered the simple techniques Antonio had taught him. He couldn't charge the enemy or defeat a grown man in single combat, but he could guard Antonio's back. He could be useful.

_Don't you trust me_ , _Toni_?

_If anything happens to you_... Lovino felt sick just thinking it.

"Toni, please!" he begged, his voice high and thin in desperation. "Don't leave me in here! I can help!"

Antonio was a talented swordsman who chose his battles—well, maybe not always wisely, but he was good at reacting and adapting to different situations. If his temper chose the wrong opponent, his skill usually saved him. And if not his skill, then his crew did. Antonio was a good captain—not because of his naval prowess, but because he loved his crew like family and inspired loyalty in every single one. Lovino knew that Miguel would be out there to guard the captain's back; they all would. But it didn't quell the boy's panic, because today felt different. Maybe because the sky was grey, fuzzy with electricity. Maybe because the crew were rowdier than usual, half-drunk on cheap Spanish liquor and overconfidence. Maybe because the enemy ship— _The Rose_ —was so damn large. Lovino had seen ships like her before, he just couldn't remember where.

Maybe it was panic or paranoia, but today Lovino was afraid for Antonio's life.

_Please_ , _please_ , _please_ —

He cowered as the guns fired. _The Rose_ 's long-nines were deafening as they whistled through the air, then exploded. _El Escape_ rocked violently at the impact and Lovino had to grab the door handle to keep from falling back. He choked down a whimper at the thought of Antonio facing those guns; curled his hands into bruising fists when the two ships drew together for boarding. Pistols fired, the decks smelling of acrid gunpowder. A stray bullet, an ambush, a loose cannon, a broken mast—that's all it would take for Antonio to die. Maybe he would get pushed overboard and drown. Maybe his clothes would catch fire and he would burn.

Lovino slid to his knees and clapped his hands over his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

If he were out there, maybe he could push Antonio out of danger. Maybe he could even the odds. Maybe he could throw him a rope, or put out the fire. Maybe.

But he wasn't out there. He was locked inside, useless and scared and safe.

"Please," he spoke into the chaos. He was crying now; he could taste it. "Please don't leave me."

When _El Escape_ caught fire, Lovino prayed in a voice thick with tears:

" _Saint Michael_ , _champion of the H-Heavenly host_ , _guardian of the s-s-souls of m-m-men_ , _grant us thy p-p-protection and share thy sturdy c-c-courage_ ; _in every danger or t-t-temptation against the enemy of our s-s-souls. O standard-bearer of our s-s-salvation_ , _be with us in this moment of chaos and watch over those who s-s-sing thy praises. Pardon me the evil I have done_ ; _and if I have done g-g-good_ , _hear my prayer and guard us from harm..._

" _Hail Mary_ , _full of grace_ , _the Lord with thee. Blessed art thou among women_ , _and blessed is the fruit of thy womb_ , _Jesus. Holy Mary_ , _Mother of God_ , _pray for us sinners_ , _now and at the hour of our death..._

" _Holy Apostle St. Jude_ , _patron of hopeless cases_ , _of things despaired_ , _pray for us in our time of need_...

" _The Light of God surrounds us_ ; _The Love of God enfolds us_ ; _The Power of God protects us_..."

Lovino crouched on the cabin floor, shaking and sobbing, his hands clenched so tightly together they ached. Words fell out of him in a long, breathless monologue. He couldn't even hear himself over the noise, barely knew what he was saying, but he couldn't stop. If he stopped, what would happen? If he stopped, he would have nothing. So, he talked and talked, speaking the dozens of prayers stored in his brain, even as his brain was thinking:

_Scared._

_I'm so scared._

_I'm so fucking scared_.

What would happen if _El Escape_ lost? What if Antonio didn't return? What if he died?

Would _El Escape_ sink? Would Lovino drown?

Would _The Rose_ take him hostage? Would they ransom him, rape him, shoot him?

" _O Heavenly Father_ , _please—fucking please_!"

Lovino felt completely lost without Antonio beside him. His voice. His touch. His smile. His warmth.

_Please come back to me_ , _Toni_.

_I need you._

_I want you._

_I love you_ , he confessed as _El Escape_ burned.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

You chose the wrong fucking ship, you scallywag!"

Antonio could only agree as he dodged the Englishman's fast attack. He leapt back to avoid the cutlass slash, drawing from his reservoir of dance steps to maintain his balance, then swung around and drove his own cutlass into his opponent's chest—no, empty space. The Englishman twisted himself out of danger, then attacked again.

_Fucker_! Antonio thought, annoyed.

The Englishman was young and not wearing a coat or symbols of status, but Antonio would have bet his ship that he was _The Rose's_ captain. It wasn't just the man's swordsmanship, nor the orders he shouted at his crew; rather, it was the way he fought with confidence—entitlement—and didn't hesitate, didn't reveal anything in his expression. If Antonio didn't watch his feet, the motion of his body, he wouldn't have been able to predict the Englishman's strikes. He was cold and calculating. Antonio would rather fight passion any day. At least fiery passion was consistent in how unpredictable it was. Calculation was an algorithm that he didn't have time to crack.

" _Ah_ —!"

The Englishman's sword cut into Antonio's side, slicing through cloth and flesh. It nicked his rib, splattering blood.

"On your knees, Spanish rat!" he snarled around a blood-freckled grin. "Regards from the Royal Navy!"

Antonio managed to parry the blow and dove sideways, panting. He crawled to his feet and escaped into the cannon smoke, which hung in plumes over the deck. He clenched his teeth and clutched his ribs, cursing the English redcoat. The son-of-a-bitch knew how to fight and Antonio hated him for it. If he risked a surprise attack and failed to disarm the Englishman then his opponent would have the advantage, but if he didn't press the attack then the English would overwhelm his crew and take—maybe sink— _El Escape_ , and that could not happen.

Lovino was aboard _El Escape_.

A burst of adrenaline surged through Antonio's veins, hot and destructive. He growled a battle-cry and leapt forward, slashing wildly in offense. He couldn't feel the pain anymore. He let go of his ribs and drew his pistol, firing it off at anyone he didn't recognize.

_I'll kill you_! _I'll kill all of you_!

 _No one will take my Lovino from me_!

Antonio slashed and kicked and shot and shouted. His crew knew to stay away from him in the heat of battle.

_Where are you_? he searched for the English captain. _Where the fuck are you_? _I'll kill you_!

What he found instead was a higher vantage of the battle. What he saw was his crew, surrounded by English soldiers.

The logic-centre of his brain screamed: _We have to retreat_!

Miguel screamed: " _We have to retreat_!"

But bloodlust urged Antonio on. He had spotted the English captain at the helm, bellowing orders:

" _Flank them_! _Flush them out from below and onto the main-deck_ , _then push back_! _I want them off this fucking ship_!"

" _Captain_ , _stop_!" Miguel hollered in his ear. He hooked his burly arms around Antonio's chest from behind and heaved him back with a smith's strength.

" _Let go_! _I'll kill him_! _I won't let him—I won't let him take Lovino_! _I'll kill him_!"

" _Antonio_ , _retreat_!" said Miguel, struggling. " _It's the Royal fucking Navy_!"

Antonio pulled against the restraint, targeting the English captain like an enraged bull. More hands grabbed him, Jorge and Leonardo. He would thank his crewmates later, but right now he hated them. He spat and snarled as they dragged him across the wet, bloodstained deck, across the gangplank, back to the safety of _El Escape_. " _Retreat_!" Miguel yelled as they went, summoning the survivors of Antonio's crew. Jorge and Leonardo pinned their captain to the deck as the sloop rocked, turned, and pulled away from the warship, leaving the gangplank to crash into the water below. Antonio screamed insults. _Cowards_! he called them, even as Miguel ordered the flames be extinguished; even as Jorge pressed down on Antonio's arms, preventing him from hurting himself; even as young Leonardo straddled the captain's back, holding him down with his weight, and pet Antonio's head with soothing strokes.

"It's okay, Captain," he said, letting Antonio's rage exhaust itself. "It's over now. We're safe now. It's okay."

" _Lovino_..."

"He's safe," said Leonardo gently. "He's in your cabin."

Antonio lay on his stomach on the deck, his cheek pressed into the wood, until his heartbeat slowed and the burning flush left his skin. Until finally, he slowly said:

"Okay. I'm okay."

* * *

**VARGAS**

The moment Lovino heard Antonio's voice, he stumbled to his feet.

His first reaction was relief: _Toni's alive_!

His second was: _I'm going to kill him_!

The moment the cabin's door opened, revealing a battered, bloody Antonio, Lovino lunged and punched him in the nose.

"You fucking bastard!" he shouted.

" _Ouch_ , Lovino!" Antonio scolded, pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood seeped out, but Lovino didn't care. He didn't feel guilty, only angry. Now that _El Escape_ was nestled safely in a nearby bay, smoldering but intact, Lovino couldn't help the overwhelming red-hot emotion that flooded him.

"What the heck was that for?" Antonio asked, kicking the door closed.

Lovino could feel his face heat, felt the burn on his neck, his ears. "You know exactly what! You locked me in here! You strapped on your guns and your sword and then just left me here! I wanted to go!" he said, feeling scorned. "I'm not a child, I can fight just as well as you can! Look!"

Impulsively, he tried to pull Antonio's cutlass from its sheath, but the angle was wrong and the floor was wet. It was a lot heavier than his epée and the unexpected weight threw him off-balance. He slipped with an embarrassing squeak and fell face-first against Antonio's stomach.

Antonio gasped sharply and Lovino's heart skipped a beat.

"What's wrong? Hey—y-you're bleeding!" he said, hating the catch in his voice. He swallowed the tears that welled at the sight of Antonio's torn shirt and bloody side. He reached forward, but Antonio gently rebuffed his touch.

"It's just a scratch," he lied, pale and sweating.

Lovino watched the Spaniard in disbelief as he crossed the cabin. His chest felt heavy; his head felt wobbly.

"No it's not, you're injured," he snapped harshly. "You're going to bleed-out and die. And I don't even care, because then I'll become the captain of this ship, as I should be."

He folded his arms to hide his trembling. Swallowed. But his gaze betrayed him, because he couldn't tear his eyes away from Antonio's injury.

"Is that so? Well, at least I know she'll be in good hands," he teased, hissing softly as he peeled off his clothes.

"I hope it hurts," Lovino croaked, eyes wet. He blinked fiercely. "That's what you get for locking me in here and leaving me behind. I could have saved you. It serves you right."

"Yes, it probably does— _Ah_!"

"God!" Lovino spat, stomping over. "You're so fucking _stupid_!"

He carefully helped Antonio into a more comfortable position, then fetched a basin of water, linen bandages, and a medical box. Then he set to work.

"It's just a flesh-wound," he reported after cleaning it, "but it'll fester if I don't stitch it."

Antonio made no reply, just leant back against a pillow. Lovino was glad. He didn't want to talk.

Instead, he focused on his task, pretending that it wasn't Antonio under his hands. Hands that weren't strong enough to fight, but which were damn good at stitching.

_You may not trust me in a swordfight_ , he thought, stung, _but I'm not useless. I can still help. I can still take care of you_.

He blinked away tears before sticking a needle into Antonio's flesh, making precise insertions as he stitched the Spaniard's flesh back together. Antonio grimaced, but didn't speak.

Lovino hated to see his handsome face contorted in pain. The girls had always loved Antonio and swooned over his tall, rope-lean figure; his dark suntan; his wavy curls that hung into emerald-green eyes; eyes that sparkled like jewels when his soft lips smiled. Lovino used to think they were stupid, the girls.

"Stop staring at me," he mumbled, feeling hot beneath Antonio's steady, scrutinizing gaze. "You're lucky that I'm here, otherwise you'd already be dead."

"You're not _supposed_ to be here, you little stowaway," Antonio replied, curling his finger around a loose lock of the boy's hair.

The gall of him, to tease and smile so softly when his insides were falling out! Lovino couldn't take it.

"Stop smiling at me!" he snapped. "Do you actually think this is funny? You could've died, Toni!"

He pulled the needle from Antonio's skin, carefully knotted the thread, and cut the excess. Only then did he let his hands resume trembling.

"You jerk," he said softly, turning away. "You could've died and you don't even care. Is that why you locked me in here? Is that why you won't let me do anything or go anywhere?"

_You're selfish_ , _Toni. I hate how often you risk yourself_ , _like you don't matter._

This time, he couldn't stop the tears. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and the tears fell hot over his cheeks. He raised a hand to cover his face, but that's when Antonio pulled him into a hug.

"Let go!" he protested, pushing against the Spaniard's chest. "You stupid, fucking bastard, let go of me!

"You would've just died and left me here alone! Like you would've left me behind in Italy!"

_Don't leave me behind. Please_ , _don't ever leave me—_

"You don't care about me—you've _never_ cared!"

It was such a fucking lie and the proof was in Antonio, himself. Antonio, who held Lovino tightly in his arms, safe and secure. Antonio, who pressed his cheek to Lovino's crown and waited patiently for his temper to ebb. Even when Lovino was being unreasonable, even when he was in the throes of a tantrum, even when Antonio was injured and exhausted, he gave himself to Lovino, in whatever capacity the boy needed. He always put Lovino's well-being and happiness first. Even on his darkest days, Antonio's love was Lovino's beacon.

He pressed his cheek to Antonio's warm, bare chest, hugging him tightly in return.

_I love you_ , _Antonio. I love you so much_ , he thought.

"I hate you," he said, his voice barely a whisper.


	4. Three

**CARRIEDO**

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and months became two years of long days and sleepless nights. Antonio, who had always been single-minded before, learnt to multitask like a court performer, juggling his role and responsibilities as _El Escape_ 's captain while teaching and protecting Lovino as his guardian. He spent countless hours arguing with the boy, forcing him into a routine: forcing him to study languages, religion, and mathematics while trying to maintain order, discipline, and good cheer aboard his ship; forcing Lovino to perform his duties as cabin-boy while trying to avoid future encounters with any royal navies. Lovino fought Antonio on nearly everything the Spaniard tried to teach him. He hated studying, despite his keen intellect—or, perhaps _because_ of it. He was incredibly gifted at language and memorization, and he was an eloquent writer when he actually tried, but getting him to try was like pulling teeth. Antonio could sympathize to a certain degree—he had never liked studying either—but there was a limit to his patience, and, more than once, he found himself sending a silent apology to his own tutors from days long past.

Lovino continued to sleep late, needing Antonio to wake him for early-morning fencing lessons, after which they would eat together and then indulge in an afternoon siesta. Once, Antonio awoke to find himself cradling Lovino on the topmost deck, lounging in the sunlight with their swords lying harmlessly aside.

He liked those peaceful moments the best.

The crew never intervened and rarely questioned Antonio's choice to keep Lovino, which he was grateful for, because he didn't have a good answer for them.

There _was_ no reason to keep him, except that Antonio wanted to.

It had been two years since he had left Italy with Lovino on-board, yet nobody had ever come after him. He supposed that Roma trusted him to keep Lovino safe, which only made the Spaniard feel worse. It was selfish of him—every day aboard _El Escape_ put Lovino at risk—but, despite the stress, Antonio couldn't help how fortunate he felt just to be with the boy. He hadn't expected Lovino to stay so long, but he seemed perfectly happy with his new sea-faring lifestyle. He had adjusted to it surprisingly well, proving the adaptability of Italian blood.

As for Antonio, he was loathe to admit that he didn't want to let Lovino go. He was afraid of the loneliness that would consume him if he did.

 _When_ , _not if_ , he chastised himself.

Absently, he clutched the gold cross that hung around his neck. His good-luck charm.

 _I can't keep him here forever_ , he knew. _Someday soon he has to go back_.

* * *

**COAST OF SPAIN**

**1738**

Good, Lovino! That's really good!"

Smiling, Antonio dodged the epée's attack, parrying the blow with his cutlass. He stepped back, heels kicking the bulkhead as he retreated from Lovino's advance. The boy followed, pushing him back until Antonio felt the mast at his back. He dodged to the left, but the epée's blade blocked him: fast and agile, just like its wielder. Lovino's lithe body moved like a dancer's, making a flourish of a feint and a climax of an eager attack. It struck Antonio as artful. He stabbed forth the epée, avoiding the cutlass slash, and stopped it inches from Antonio's throat.

Antonio dropped the cutlass and surrendered his hands. "I yield," he said, smiling proudly.

Lovino lowered his sword. He was sweating and panting and smiling smugly from ear-to-ear. It was a beautiful, honest smile, the kind reaped by hard work and pride. He bounced and hollered in victory, sheathing the epée for safekeeping, and said:

"I beat you! I told you, I've been practising really hard and it finally paid-off! Ah ha! You should see the look on your face, Toni!"

He laughed loudly, unbothered by the attention his antics drew from the crew. They merely rolled their eyes or shook their heads, smiling indulgently or in annoyance, but no one interrupted the captain and cabin-boy. They left Antonio to deal with his giddy charge, who was as insufferable a winner as he was a sore-loser.

"Congratulations, _chiquito_." Bowing playfully, Antonio took Lovino's hand and kissed it. "I have nothing left to teach you. It seems those dancing lessons paid off a lot more than the combat lessons," he joked, provoking the boy.

Lovino frowned. “I'm an excellent combatant!"

“Yes, but a better dancer. Show me."

Before Lovino could protest, Antonio grabbed his waist and, holding him nearly chest-to-chest, began to spin him to a phantom rhythm. He held Lovino's left hand in his right and stepped deliberately forward, forcing the boy back. Lovino grabbed Antonio's shoulder for balance, taken off-guard by the Spaniard's sudden invitation. But his feet knew the steps and he let Antonio lead him around the deck in circles. It was Antonio's favourite dance: intimate and fast-paced. He laughed as the shock on Lovino's face melted into concentration, then joy.

"This is a much better dance than swordplay, don't you think?" he said, supporting Lovino as he dipped him low. "It's more enjoyable and"—he leant down, inches from Lovino's face—"it has a more thrilling finale."

"Oh, get off," Lovino complained, turning his blushing face away.

Antonio play-fought his struggles and kissed his cheek.

"What was that for?" Lovino asked, deliberately rubbing it off.

Antonio cocked his index-finger in secrecy, annoying the boy. He couldn't help it. He loved the flustered look on Lovino's face. Others might have considered the Italian's short-temper ungentlemanly, but Antonio found it cute. In fact, the less endearing the boy's attitude became to everyone else, the cuter Antonio thought he was.

 _He's grown-up so much in such a short time. He's seen and done things now that he never would have if he had stayed in Italy. He should've gone back months ago_ , he thought for the umpteenth time, _but I'm glad he didn't. We're playing on borrowed time_ , _but I'm glad he wants to stay here with me._

The two-years ago Antonio wouldn't recognize the spoiled lordling he had scolded for stowing-away, because that boy was almost entirely gone. There was a fearlessness about Lovino now that both worried and excited Antonio. The boy was still proud and lazy and still stole from the galley, but his understanding of the world had grown. Every day Lovino spent aboard _El Escape_ was a day he became less the naive child whom Antonio had loved, and more of a confident, hot-tempered youth whom he was afraid to love. Even now, as he watched Lovino fan himself with a hand, letting the sea breeze tug his chocolate hair, sunlight warm on his bare skin, he thought:

 _He's going to be such a pistol someday. And then I'll really be in trouble_.

It already scared him when he caught himself staring for too long at the boy.

"Tomorrow is your fifteenth birthday," he said to distract himself. He said it as if Lovino didn’t already know; as if he hadn’t been reminding everyone for weeks in advance. "We'll dock in Barcelona and go into the city, and I'll buy you whatever you want as a present. Sound good?”

Lovino grinned like a satisfied cat. "Can we go to a tavern?" he asked hopefully.

"No, you're too young."

"But I'll be fifteen at midnight!"

"Too young," Antonio repeated firmly.

It was an argument he refused to yield. Fifteen or not, he didn't want Lovino naively parading into a crowded city tavern like the prideful lordling he was. He would undoubtedly cause a scene or get taken advantage of, especially if drunk. Antonio was afraid that Lovino would push himself to drink more than he should, and then find himself in trouble—like Francis had at fourteen-years-old. Not that Antonio refused a drink when offered. And it wasn't as if Lovino had never tasted wine before. But weak beer or a watered-down wine at supper was not the same as drinking with strangers in a port tavern. Lovino was academically clever, but Antonio was determined to wait for his survival smarts to sharpen before he indulged him in a public-house. Otherwise, he would get preyed upon like the prime target he was.

In appeasement, he said: "I'll take you somewhere else, Lovi. A place I know you'll like."

* * *

That night, as Lovino undressed, Antonio kept his eyes plastered modestly to the floor. He tugged off his shirt and sat down on his bed, sighing deeply, then flinched when the feather-mattress sunk beneath the boy's added weight.

"Err... what are you doing?" he asked, cautiously turning around.

Lovino shrugged beneath a large, improperly-buttoned shirt, naked from the knees down. He looked like a fairytale heroine, so innocent and defenceless.

"I don't want to wake up alone on my birthday," he admitted, staring down at the bedding.

His blush made Antonio's heartbeat pound.

"Toni?" he asked, crawling forward. He toyed with the too-long sleeve of the too-large shirt. Antonio’s shirt. "Can I sleep here with you tonight?"

Antonio swallowed.

"You're not alone," he said, shifting sideways; keeping his knees pressed together. "Your bed is right there, two meters away."

He stopped when Lovino licked his lips nervously: slick, pink tongue wetting soft, pouting lips. His lashes lowered over his eyes, downcast in disappointment.

Antonio’s whole body felt like a tightly-coiled spring. More than anything, he wanted to pull Lovino into his arms and hug him and hold him, like he used to. He wanted to feel the child’s warm weight against him as they slept together, knowing the little lordling was safe in his arms. But Lovino wasn’t that child anymore, and holding him wouldn’t, couldn’t, be the same. Now, it would be—

Antonio bit the inside of his cheek.

 _I shouldn’t be feeling this way_ , he thought. _For so many reasons_ , _I shouldn’t_.

Lovino was his responsibility, his charge, but he was also Antonio’s lord. He was only fifteen-years-old. And, most importantly, he was male.

 _He’s male_ , he repeated, grabbing onto that thought—that fact—like a lifeline. _He’s my friend_ , _my brother even. We’re close. That’s all this is. We’re both just feeling a little homesick_ , _that’s all._

 _And it’s his birthday_ , _and this is his request_. _Not mine. It has nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t want to feel alone on my birthday either._

 _We’re close_ , he breathed deeply. _Close male friends_ , _that’s all._

“Sure, you can sleep here,” he said, and melted a little when Lovino smiled.

“Thanks,” he murmured, crawling and wiggling and burrowing beneath the blankets. He pushed his face into a pillow—a pillow that had not been laundered for quite a while, and which was saturated in Antonio’s scent and dry sweat—and closed his eyes with a sleepy sigh of contentment.

He wouldn’t stay like that, Antonio knew. Both Lovino and Feliciano liked to cuddle their bedmates in sleep. Lovino even drooled, sometimes.

Antonio knew he shouldn’t lie down beside him—the beautiful boy, sleeping soundly in the moonlight—but he did. He pulled his shirt back on, tied it, and eased himself down cautiously, pulling the blanket up higher to cover more of Lovino, as if a blanket barrier would solve the problem of proximity. He leant against the wall, half-sitting and half-slumped, and with no pillow or blanket to comfort him. He sat like that for a long time, staring out at the night as he listened to Lovino breathe. He watched the moon until it reached its peak in the sky, then finally looked down at the fifteen-year-old boy.

Certain he was asleep, Antonio leant down and pressed a feather-soft kiss to Lovino’s cheek.

“ _Feliz cumpleaños_ , _mi tesoro_ ,” he said.

* * *

**VARGAS**

**BARCELONA, SPAIN**

**17 MARCH 1738**

Lovino woke with a sigh and a stretch, feeling rested and refreshed. He never had trouble sleeping, but he always slept deeper when there was someone beside him. A security instinct, no doubt. Another body to provide warmth and protection. It was a nice feeling. Lovino had missed it, since he and Feliciano had slept together their whole lives until Lovino left. Antonio used to sleep between them whenever he was home, but even though _home_ was _El Escape_ for the both of them, now, the Spaniard had insisted on them having their own beds.

“Can’t I just put my bed beside yours?” Lovino had asked three years ago.

“No,” said Antonio, “I told you this isn’t a vacation. I’m working.”

“Can’t I sleep in your bed tonight?” Lovino had asked two years ago.

“No,” said Antonio, “I’m not crawling over you if I have to get up.”

“Can’t I please sleep with you?” Lovino had asked one year ago.

“No,” said Antonio, “you’re fourteen.”

Lovino was loathe to admit that, even at fourteen, he didn’t want to sleep alone. He had never learnt _how_ to sleep alone, because he had always been indulged.

Antonio’s dismissal made Lovino feel foolish for wanting a bedmate, but at least he hadn’t banished Lovino from the captain’s cabin. Their beds stood barely two meters apart, which offered some comfort to the insecure boy. On rare occasions when Antonio fell asleep before he did, Lovino would lie in his bed listening to the Spaniard sleep: his heavy, rhythmic breaths matching the pace of the waves. Lovino felt comforted by his mere presence in those moments, because it reminded him that he wasn’t alone in the dark.

It was morning now, though, and sunlight was pouring in. Lovino roused slowly and opened his eyes to find his head pillowed on Antonio’s stomach. Antonio, who was slumped in an uncomfortable position, half-sitting against the wall, fast asleep.

Lovino stared at him for a moment, then reached up and gently swept back the Spaniard’s dark, unruly hair, wanting to see his whole face.

_You asked me what I want for my birthday_ , he thought, caressing Antonio’s cheek. _I want you._

_I want you to spend the whole day with me_ , _like you used to. Maybe it’s selfish_ , he considered, knowing how busy Antonio was day-by-day, _but I don’t care. I’m not going to lie to myself and pretend I don’t want your attention_ , _because I do. I don’t want you to look at or talk to or think about anyone except me today. I want you to spoil me. I want you to make me feel like the only person there is._

Carefully, Lovino crawled out of the bed, letting Antonio sleep. He got himself cleaned and dressed in blood-red and black—rich, deeply dyed fabrics that screamed of wealth. He examined his face, his fingernails, and fluffed his hair prettily, trying his hardest to look like he wasn’t trying to look his best.

When Antonio awoke an hour later, Lovino was sitting on the narrow window-ledge, spying on the port, but he perked-up at Antonio’s yawn. It was a long, deep, groaning sound, which Lovino scowled at but secretly loved, because it made the dashing sea-captain seem more human. He leapt up and hurried to the bedside, folding his arms and cocking his hip.

“Are you going to sleep all day?” he asked in disapproval. “You promised to take me into the city. I want my present!” he whined.

As Antonio splashed his face with cold water and got dressed, Lovino discretely inspected his appearance in the reflection of a silver plate. He fluffed his hair again, ensuring it fell perfectly, then rubbed his cheekbones hard to gain a little more colour. He smiled in satisfaction.

Lovino knew he was attractive. People had been telling him he was his whole life—people, including Antonio.

He was excited to spend his day alone with the Spaniard, but a little anxious as well, and he didn’t know why. He felt impatient as he waited for Antonio, who took his sweet time getting ready, and who still looked half-asleep. The way he moved reminded Lovino of a cat stretching sluggishly in the sunlight, pulling his firm muscles taut. He watched the strain of those muscles as Antonio pulled his shirt off overhead. His stomach fluttered and he felt himself get hot, but he couldn’t seem to look away as Antonio tripped around the cabin in search of clean clothes. Lovino could have helped him, could have directed him to the freshly laundered linens folded neatly in a trunk, but he didn’t. And he didn’t know why. He let Antonio discover the clothes on his own, which left him wandering around half-naked for twice as long.

Eventually, Antonio strapped on his belt and pistols and led Lovino out on-deck.

Lovino smiled when Antonio told the crew he wouldn’t be back until after sunset. He left Miguel in charge, then waited while the crew wished Lovino health, happiness, and good fortune for his birthday. Lovino beamed at the praise, but it wasn’t until Antonio took his hand to lead him down the gangplank that he really, truly smiled.

Barcelona was a big, bustling port full of activity. It was loud and crowded and harassed Lovino's senses, not unlike Rome on a holiday. The sun was hot and bright and bathed the city streets in a pleasant golden glow. It smelled of salt and sweat and flowers and fruit, of people and horses, of barking dogs, birds flying overhead, and cats and rats scurrying underfoot. A hundred sights and sounds surrounded Lovino as they walked down the high street. Dozens of different vendors called-out to him, paying him compliments in the hope he would stop. Lovino knew the praise was superficial, but he basked in it nonetheless. They called him _young lord_! for his clothes and his escort, and it felt good. He hadn’t been a noble to anyone for three years, having always to hide his identity whenever they left the ship. He hadn’t been able to look and act like the privileged man he was in so long that he was taking full advantage of it now.

Antonio stayed close to him wherever he went, precisely like a bodyguard. He tried to maintain a casual look about his person, but his hands hovered protectively close to Lovino, ready to grab him in case of danger. Perhaps Lovino ought to feel offended or leashed by it, but he didn’t. It made him feel happy and safe and proved that he had Antonio’s undivided attention.

“Toni, look!” he said in excitement. He stopped in front of a blacksmith’s shop, a metal clang ringing from somewhere within. In a case on display was a beautiful epée, gleaming atop a tasseled, purple cloth. “I want to hold it,” he announced, slipping into the shop.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a new outfit or accessory? Boots, maybe?” Antonio urged, eyeing the price of the sword.

Lovino smiled as the shopkeeper offered him the epée with a polite bow.

“I’m not a woman attending a party,” he said, testing the weapon’s weight. “I’m a swordsman, now. The only accessory I need is a blade. You said you would buy me whatever I wanted, right?”

He batted his eyelashes and even added a flirtatious: “ _Please_?”

Antonio sighed and—after inspecting the sword to confirm its good quality—he paid the shopkeeper. He took the epée and presented it to Lovino, himself, kneeling like a knight to a lord. Lovino beamed and took it eagerly, tying the sheath to his sash. He felt proud as they left the shop, like a proper swordsman now with a proper sword.

For the rest of the day, Antonio escorted Lovino through the city, stopping wherever he wanted and never refusing his requests. He bought spicy meat, lemons and oranges, and sweet cakes, which they ate as they walked, and even let Lovino indulge every theatrical street-performer who wanted to serenade him. (None were as good a singer as Antonio, but Lovino kept that to himself.) They walked the city walls, overlooking the water, and watched a parade of cavalrymen march by, all polished armour and flapping flags, and took a midday nap in a public garden when the heat became too much.

“Do you think we could see the whole city from up there?” Lovino asked, pointing to a watchtower.

“Probably,” Antonio mused.

Lovino squeezed his hand and smiled insistently, and Antonio chuckled and bribed the guards to let them in.

It was the perfect day, in Lovino’s opinion. Not only because he could do whatever he wanted, but because Antonio was with him the whole time. He even asked if they could go to the public baths, not because he wanted to go, but because he wanted to see if overprotective Antonio would actually let him. He did, though they didn’t stay long. (A few other patrons leered at them, making Lovino uncomfortable. He sat close to Antonio, using him as a shield, but got bored when Antonio failed to talk to him… or, even look at him.)

Finally, at sunset, Antonio took Lovino’s arm like a gentleman—Lovino complained, but pressed closer—and led him outside the city-centre. He wouldn’t tell Lovino where they were going, but promised that he would like it.

“How can you know that?’ Lovino challenged as they climbed a mountain.

Antonio parried the goad and winked.

“Because I know you, Lovi,” he said.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

I know you, Lovi,” said Antonio, feigning confidence.

In truth, he was anxious, hoping that he still knew Lovino, but truly doubting himself for the first time since Francis had left. He wanted to do something special for Lovino to celebrate his birthday, but there were days he barely recognized the boy anymore, he had grown so much, and it made Antonio uneasy. He wanted to see Lovino as a child, but every day it became harder to do so; harder to pretend that their relationship wasn’t changing. He felt like he was losing the Lovino he had always loved, because he was too afraid to love the Lovino that he was becoming.

The place Antonio was taking Lovino had seemed like a good idea before, a consolation for rejecting Lovino’s want of a tavern, but now he worried it wouldn’t be enough. After a whole day being spoiled, perhaps Lovino expected a greater, more exciting finale than what Antonio had planned?

“Toni, what’s wrong?” Lovino asked.

Antonio had stopped at the gate, lost in thought. He blinked.

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he lied, plastering a smile to his face. He didn’t want to worry Lovino, not today. “Come here, Lovi, I have something for you.”

He walked Lovino through the gate and then stopped, squeezed his hand, and smiled.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

Lovino’s eyes widened in awe, then his lips curled into surprised delight. A grand Italian hotel stood at the summit of the mountain, nestled in a lush, tropical garden and overlooking the sparkling sea. Guards in bright livery bowed their heads as Antonio confirmed his identity, then a footman led them up the brick esplanade, which was flanked by low walls decorated in colourful mosaics. Half-a-dozen well-dressed people milled at the entrance, talking and laughing and smiling at Antonio and Lovino as they passed into a cavernous foyer with balconies stretching out toward the water. It was on one of these balconies that Antonio and Lovino were seated for supper, secluded by huge urns overflowing with botanic art. The view was stunning, the flowers sweet, but none of it compared to Lovino’s joy.

“Today you’re an Italian lord again, Lovino Vargas,” Antonio smiled.

“Does that mean I get to have the good wine?”

Antonio laughed. “You get the good wine.

“I know you’re having fun on _El Escape_ ,” he added, more serious, “but I don’t want you to ever forget what home feels like, okay?”

Lovino’s eyes softened. He looked beautiful in the falling sunset, the bright candlelight.

“Thank-you, Toni,” he said quietly, earnestly. “Today has been the best day of my life.”

He looked away, blushing in embarrassment, pretending to admire the view, so he didn’t see Antonio’s lips part, or hear the catch in his breath. He couldn’t know that Antonio’s heart skipped a beat.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered in reply.

They spent an enjoyable evening together, talking and laughing and being waited on hand-and-foot by the hotel servants. Antonio ordered everything on offer, made requests of the house musicians, and tipped well enough to keep the staff smiling as they served whatever he wanted. They ate Italian. They sang and spoke in Italian. If Antonio closed his eyes, he could pretend he _was_ in Italy. The atmosphere—and wine—brought back happy memories, many of which included Francis, which he found himself telling Lovino as the sun sank into the water. The more wine they drank, the more explicit the stories became— _sorry Fran_ —and the more Lovino laughed. A big, beautiful, honest laugh that wasn’t trying to flatter anyone. He snorted and wiped away tears as his face flushed tomato-red. Before Antonio knew it, he was emptying their third bottle of wine.

“Come on, let’s get some air,” he said, taking both of Lovino’s hands to steady him.

The boy was smiling and starry-eyed, and he hugged Antonio’s arm, leaning against him as the Spaniard led him outside into the cooler, quieter garden.

“It’s so beautiful,” Lovino mused, his words a little fuzzy. He plucked a rose and, grinning impishly, tucked it behind Antonio’s ear. “ _Beautiful_!” he laughed.

“I think that third bottle was a mistake,” said Antonio, amused.

Lovino pouted, then tripped over his own feet. Antonio caught him around the middle.

“Okay, come over here,” he said, lifting the lightweight boy like a newlywed. He carried him to a low stone bench at the edge of the garden and sat down.

Lovino swayed sideways and fell against Antonio, then shimmied closer so that he could rest his head on Antonio’s shoulder. “ _Toni_ ,” he mumbled, lips and hands both pressed to the Spaniard’s neck. “I want to stay with you, okay? I don’t—don’t want to go. Don’t make me go, okay?”

Antonio kept his arm wrapped around Lovino to prevent him sliding off the bench. “Don’t you want to go home?” he asked. “Don’t you want to see your family?”

“No. I want to stay with you,” Lovino replied, clutching Antonio’s shirt collar. “I always want to be with you. You’re my home.”

Antonio’s heart felt ballooned by Lovino’s words, spoken without slander or sarcasm, but honesty, revealing a desire so pure it silenced all his prior doubts.

 _I want to stay with you_ , _too_ , he thought, letting his head rest atop Lovino’s. _I love you_.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the boy’s scent. Lovino’s skin was flushed; his body was warm and solid. Antonio felt hot in reply, his head foggy. Lovino murmured something, his lips soft and moist, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down Antonio’s spine. There was a whine in the boy’s voice. Antonio felt instinctively pulled to answer it. He wanted to give Lovino what it was he was asking for. He wanted to give Lovino everything.

“ _Tonio_ ,” he said quietly, tipping his head up. His eyes were big and bright, lashes thick and clumped. His lips glistened, parted a little. His voice was a husky plea.

“ _Kiss me_.”

Antonio did.

He closed the gap between them and kissed Lovino before he could tell himself not to.

He pressed his lips to Lovino’s and kissed him too fast, too hard, too deeply for a first kiss, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He tasted Lovino’s sweet lips, then his wine-soaked tongue. He cupped the boy’s face in his hand and pushed his head back, wanting—desperately—to devour every inch of him.

_Stop_! said a voice in his head, but it was distant. It was weak.

Antonio’s desire was strong. It had been for months.

He pushed into Lovino and Lovino pushed back, wrapping his arms around Antonio’s neck and grabbing him, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. His breaths came fast and ragged as he thrust his tongue, again, into the Spaniard’s mouth, slick and hot. Antonio slipped his hands into the Italian’s clothes. Lovino squeezed Antonio’s sides with his knees, a wanton moan spilling from deep inside of him and—

—Antonio’s eyes snapped open, his own breath coming in fast gasps.

He looked down at Lovino, who stared dazedly up at him with mussed hair, pink cheeks, and swollen lips. Lovino, who was lying on his back on the bench, whose legs were spread to accommodate Antonio. Antonio, who was sprawled atop him, pushing the stiff evidence of his desire to Lovino’s own.

_What am I doing_? Antonio thought, emerging from the fog.

How long had they been kissing? How long had Lovino been pinned under him?

Panic crashed down on him.

_What have I done_?

“ _Tonio_ ,” Lovino whispered. Then his eyelids fluttered closed and his limbs went slack.

Antonio gently tapped his cheek, but the boy was out.

 _Thank God_ , he thought in relief. Now he just needed to pray that Lovino didn’t remember anything after that second bottle of wine.

“Fuck,” he cursed, standing and pacing to calm himself down. He clutched his cross tightly. “Fuck.”

Eventually, he scooped Lovino into his arms and left the garden. He descended the mountain and walked all the way back to the port, letting the night air clear his head. His arms ached by the time he reached _El Escape_ , but he dared not wake Lovino to make him walk. Instead, he smiled at the few crewmembers on watch—chuckling at their jokes and pretending to be just as amused by Lovino’s state—and then slipped quietly into his cabin.

He put Lovino down onto his bed and tugged off his shoes, but left the rest of his clothes on. He covered him with a blanket and brushed the hair off his face, then pulled himself deliberately away.

He retreated to the opposite side of the cabin, which was not nearly _away_ enough, and clutched his cross again as the panic returned.

 _Why did I do it_? he thought, wanting something—anything—but the truth. _Why did I kiss him_? _Why did I touch him_? _How much further would that touch have gone_?

_I would’ve…_

_I could’ve…_

Antonio shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down. He was shaking. His heart was pounding.

He rushed to the window and thrust it open, sticking his head outside and breathing in deeply. He could hear the crew talking and tried to listen, tried to focus on their voices, on anything but his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he couldn’t. His head swam with guilt and self-loathing.

 _I got my fifteen-year-old lord drunk and tried to fuck him_.

 _Roma trusted me with his heir and I failed him. I tried to_ fuck _him._

Hot, sour fluid filled his mouth and he wretched out the window.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought, _I’m so fucking sorry_.

 _I’m so sorry_ , _Fran_. _I’m not like them—I’m not_! _I_ —

Antonio slid to his knees and clutched fistfuls of his hair. Tears wet his cheeks, but he clenched his teeth to keep from making a sound. He rocked back-and-forth, hit his head against the wall but didn’t feel it.

 _I’m good_ , he told himself, not believing it. _Saints preserve me_ , _I’m good. I’ll be good_ , _I promise_. _Just make him forget. Make Lovino forget what happened tonight. Please_ , _Lord—_ please. _Make me good and keep him safe._

 _Keep Lovino safe from me_.


	5. Four

**VARGAS**

**BARCELONA, SPAIN**

**18 MARCH 1738**

Lovino awoke feeling sick. He had barely lifted his head from the pillow before a needle of pain pierced his foggy brain and he squeezed his eyes shut, deploring the bright sunlight that shone happily into the cabin. Seagulls cried outside, dueling for fish-heads as the Italian fought the urge to discharge the contents of his stomach in a most ungentlemanly fashion. A gust of wind blew the fishy scent of Barcelona's wharf into the cabin and Lovino lost the battle for control. He stumbled urgently to the window and vomited over the side. Then he watched the seagulls dive hungrily to eat the chunky contents floating in the water and he vomited again. Nature, it seemed, was unsympathetic to his sensitivities. He buried his head in his arms and sat slumped against the window-ledge like the weeping victim of a villain's plot. Half-asleep, too lethargic and afraid of the gastric repercussions to risk moving, Lovino stayed there until the cabin's door opened.

He barely registered the touch of Antonio's hand. "Lovi?"

Lovino uttered a weak moan, afraid to open his eyes. He began to protest when Antonio lifted him up—embarrassed by the thought of vomiting on Antonio—but the Spaniard's warm body had the opposite effect, and he quieted. He rested his head on Antonio's chest and clutched a fistful of his sleeve, feeling comforted by the heat and scent of the man: roasted-coffee, sweat, and sea-salt. It was soothing.

"I want to die," he murmured as Antonio returned him to bed.

"I would be very sad if you did," Antonio admitted. He left then, but returned shortly with a glass of the most foul-smelling concoction Lovino had ever had the displeasure of smelling. He wondered if Antonio was intentionally trying to make him sick, especially when the Spaniard's chipper voice said: "Drink it."

"Fuck yourself," Lovino replied. "No— _No_!"

Antonio pulled Lovino into a sitting position and then pushed the offensive drink toward him. "It'll make you feel better."

"Yeah, because if I drink it I'll die."

"Stop fussing and trust me.” He pinched Lovino's nose. "Don't make me feed you like a baby."

Lovino swatted at Antonio, who only relented when he had taken the glass in defeat. "I hate you," he said, eyeing the thick substance, which looked like a witch's brew.

 _With luck it'll send me into an enchanted sleep until the hangover passes_.

But the instant it touched his lips, his gag-reflex abolished the idea. He leaned forward, but Antonio lifted his chin, forcing him to swallow. Too late, Lovino pinched his nose. The taste on his tongue was horrid, but he managed to choke the rest down.

"I—" _cough cough_ "— _hate_ you, Toni!"

As Lovino rolled onto his side, Antonio said: "I shouldn't have let you drink so much last night. That was my fault. I’m sorry." He looked sheepish.

Lovino's eyes narrowed, partially at Antonio and partially at the abrasive sunlight. "You drank as much as I did. Why aren't you sick?"

"Because," said Antonio, affecting a grateful, teasing manner; he cocked his index-finger, "I already drank my potion."

"Fuck you," Lovino returned. And he went back to sleep.

It was late-afternoon when next he awoke, feeling drowsy. His head felt heavy, as if drugged, but at least it no longer hurt. He peeled his eyes open and saw Antonio sitting at a desk in the corner, head bowed as he wrote. Lovino could hear the faint, constant scrape of a quill on parchment, which sang him back to sleep.

He dreamt of fish-scaled witches and magic brews that smelled like something only a Scandinavian would voluntarily eat. He dreamt of being locked in a cage beneath the ocean's surface; he could feel the cage moving as the waves rocked it. He tugged at the bars, made of bone, and screamed for help. He screamed for Antonio, whose silhouette he could see above the surface. A dashing, swashbuckling hero. The Spaniard's strong hands reached down and pulled the cage apart. The bones broke. Lovino heard the crunch of every one. Then, as the cage emerged, Antonio grabbed Lovino and pulled him to safety. Lovino felt relief. Gazing into Antonio's eyes, he felt affection.

Then Antonio kissed him, not on the forehead or cheek, but on the lips. And Lovino reciprocated as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It felt right. Antonio had rescued him so many times and—oh! Lovino had longed to repay him with a kiss. He felt the touch of Antonio's supple lips; tasted Antonio's slick, wine-laced tongue. And the Spaniard's strong hands, which coiled around the column of Lovino's slender neck.

Lovino stiffed, his ministrations ceased. Antonio's hands constricted around his neck, crushing his windpipe. Lovino couldn't breathe. He tried to call-out, but he couldn't make a sound. He tasted brine as Antonio pushed him back beneath the ocean's surface. There were tears in his green eyes, which had clouded-over like a stormy sky. His lips spoke words of regret, but Lovino couldn't hear them.

Antonio squeezed his neck until the bones broke, just like the cage.

Lovino bolted upright, gasping. He felt—scared.

_No_. He clutched his heart. _Toni wouldn’t. He’s good. He’s kind. He’s a pirate_ , _but he’s not a villain. Where did that even come from_?

“Lovi? Lovino? Hey, are you okay?”

Lovino moaned, slowly waking up. He turned to face Antonio, who was still sitting at the desk. The sunset was murderous, bathing the pirate captain in blood-red. He stared at the boy with a curious, cryptic look on his face. It reminded Lovino of the Antonio in his dream, who had rescued him only to crush his bones. An involuntary whine escaped him.

"What's wrong?" Antonio crossed the room and knelt by Lovino's bedside. When he reached for him, Lovino shrank back. "Hey there, _chiquito_ ," he smoothed Lovino's hair, "it’s okay. Tell me what's wrong. Do you feel sick?"

"No. Nothing, it just—It was just a dream.”

_It was just a dream_.

Antonio's face softened. He knelt on the floor and rested his chin on his folded arms, leaning close to Lovino. In the shadows, out of the blinding red sunlight, he looked like himself again. He looked like the man who had kissed Lovino the night before.

_Toni kissed me in the garden_ , he recalled. _That wasn't a dream_. _That really happened._

Lovino had been taken off-guard by Antonio's sudden advance, but it hadn't shocked him. It hadn't scared him. On the contrary, it had confirmed a suspicion that he had been feeling for a long time. Something that had grown from an innocent, childhood crush into— _love_? _Is this what love feels like_? Lovino had never been in love before and didn't know what it was supposed to feel like. _But this_ —meeting Antonio’s warm, familiar gaze— _feels good._

 _I want him to kiss me again_ , he thought, almost desperate. _I want to kiss him_. _I wonder if he feels the same_?

 _I love you so much_ , _Toni. Don’t you love me_ , _too_?

He stared expectantly at Antonio, waiting for him to speak or move; waiting for him to confirm the change between them; waiting for him to acknowledge it; waiting to be confessed to; waiting to be kissed— waiting, waiting, waiting. But as the seconds ticked by, Antonio remained silent.

Lovino waited anxiously as hope and happiness sunk into sadness. _If you love me_ , _now is the time to tell me_ , _Toni. I'm here_ , _I'm listening._

 _Are we not going to talk about it_?

 _Are we going to pretend it never happened_?

Finally, as if waking from a daydream, Antonio leant forward and chastely pecked Lovino's forehead. "Just rest, _chiquito_. You'll feel better tomorrow."

* * *

Days passed with barely a word exchanged between the Spaniard and Italian that wasn't of inconsequence. The polite conversation was suitable to a retainer and a gentleman, but it was unlike the way they usually spoke to one other, especiall y on Lovino's part. But he was determined to cradle his feelings and the fetal hope that something _had_ changed between them, and so he tried his hardest to avoid upsetting Antonio. He tried not to complain or lose his temper, still harbouring hope that the Spaniard would confess, or at least acknowledge what had happened between them. As a result, he spent most of his time away from Antonio, suddenly self-conscious of making a mess of things, but Antonio seemed not to notice. Blaming a busy schedule, he submerged himself in work and the boy saw him even less than before. And when he did, Antonio was distracted. He spent long hours at his desk, scribbling what Lovino thought were letters, but he didn't know to whom. Once, when curiosity overwhelmed propriety, he rifled through the contents of Antonio's desk, but didn't find anything of interest. The bottom drawer, which doubtlessly contained the letters, was locked.

Lovino lasted a week before his temper finally ate his patience.

"Supper is ready," he said to Antonio, inching toward him. "You haven't eaten anything today, Toni. And the cook made paella for supper. It'd be rude not to eat it. Toni—?"

Antonio was hunched over his desk, absorbed in his writing. It looked like a letter, but as Lovino drew closer, hoping to catch a glimpse, Antonio flinched and flipped it over, overturning a pot of pounce in the process

"What's wrong, Lovi?" he asked, ignoring the mess.

Lovino eyed him skeptically, distrusting Antonio's nonchalance. "Supper's ready," he repeated in annoyance.

"Oh." Antonio relaxed. "Go ahead and eat without me. I'm not hungry for empanadas."

"Paella," Lovino corrected, temper flaring. He disliked being ignored.

"Yes, paella—that's what I meant."

In a bout of compressed rage, Lovino reached over Antonio's shoulder, grabbed his inkwell, and threw it at the opposite wall. It shattered, leaving an inky stain on the wood as it fell to the floor. Antonio protested in shock, but Lovino was already gone. He left the cabin and climbed to the top deck, where he had not practised swordplay in weeks. He clutched the guardrail tightly, letting the breeze cool his temper.

_Why did I do that_?

He felt unstable and hot, like fire. As his fingers closed around the inkwell, his only thought had been: _Pay attention to me_! _Just look at me_! Then the inkwell was flying. He regretted it now, of course. It had both startled and confused Antonio, but Lovino felt better having done it.

 _I've never been able to control my temper_ , _so_ _I don't know why I bothered trying_. _It's not even my fault_. _It's because Toni is infuriating_! _It’s because he makes me so angry_!

_It's became I care_ , he privately admitted. _If I didn't care for him_ , _it wouldn't hurt this much._

Kisses were supposed to be given in love and affection, not fear. They were supposed to make you feel happy, not sad. Not forgotten. And Antonio—

_He won't even look at me_ , Lovino thought sadly.

He stood still and silent for a while, lost in his thoughts before coming to a regrettable conclusion.

 _Fine_.

The kiss had been exhilarating, addictive even. It had been everything that Lovino was unwittingly waiting for, everything he wanted. But it wasn't worth losing what he and Antonio already had.

 _If you want to pretend it didn't happen_ _then so will I_.

He wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t want to ignore it; didn’t want things to go back to the way they were. He was ready for so much _more_. But he would do it, he would ignore it, because it’s want Antonio wanted. He would swallow his feelings for the sake of Antonio, because he cared about Antonio. He loved Antonio. He was accidentally and irrevocably _in love_ with Antonio, and if ignorance is what it took to stay with him, then that’s what Lovino would do. It was better than rejection, after all.

It was better than being sent away.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

**MARSEILLE, FRANCE**

**ONE MONTH LATER**

Antonio folded the letter twice and tucked it into his coat pocket.

He had left the ship early, seeking a messenger from Rome. Marseille was quiet compared to busy Barcelona, but amply supplied to quench any seaman's thirst for wine or women. He had met the messenger in a wine-house and received a single letter, a reply to the one he had sent a month ago. It was written in Roma's artistic scroll, though his words were not quite as artful. It was a short letter compared to the multi-paged composition that Antonio had written him, but it was just as well. It wasn't meant to be a correspondence between friends, but a plea for help. One to which his former foster-father had replied:

_April_ , _1738_

_Rome_

_My dearest Antonio_ ,

 _It sorrows me to learn of your hardships_ , _for I hate to think that any of my children are unhappy. I would make it otherwise_ , _if I could. But I’m afraid that no amount of spoiling or coddling can cure your grief. Your soul has always been cleaved_ , _Antonio_ ; _your heart tormented. I will not pen it_ , _for you know of what I speak. I am sorry I could not be there for you then. I am sorry I cannot be there for you_ , _now. There is passion in your blood_ , _which is yours alone to command. In this_ , _I fear it is your enemy and I regret my absence once again. I would counsel you better_ , _if I could_ , _but in matters of the heart I do not believe I can_ ( _nor should_ ). _I cannot ease your heartache_ , _my dearest child. Yours is not my decision to make. But I trust you_ , _Antonio_. _I always have._

 _If you so desire_ , _thinking it in the best interest of my grandson_ , _then send Lovino home with haste. We have all missed him and would rejoice in his return_ , _but do not return him in indecision. For once_ , _be certain of yourself and what it is you want_, _because your choice will not be easily reversed._

 _You are a good man_ , _Antonio. Remember that._

 _Yours lovingly_ ,

_Roma_

Antonio sighed as he climbed the gangplank, returning to _El Escape_.

His decision. Great.

He found himself yearning for the days of his childhood when Roma had commanded, not obliged his wards. If he had ordered Francis and Antonio to do something then they had (usually) done it without question, trusting his judgement. They had never had to make decisions for themselves and it had been so much simpler then governing themselves; so much easier than making their own decisions.

 _I wrote you for guidance_ , Antonio thought, annoyed _,_ _and all you've told me is to decide for myself_. _That's what I get for leaving home_ , _for pretending that my life is my own. I thought I was escaping the shackles._ _I thought that taking control of my own life meant the freedom to do whatever I want_. _But I was wrong_ , _the opposite is true. I have more responsibility now than I ever did before_.

As if on-cue, Lovino's voice interrupted his thoughts:

"Come on, Miguel, please?" he whined. "Jorge?"

Lovino was bouncing eagerly on his toes, engaged in a one-sided debate with the first-mate and boson, who both looked skeptically at the boy. It wasn't an unusual sight. Lovino often pestered the sailors, especially Miguel, who regarded him with indifference, annoyance, or affectionate tolerance depending on his mood and Lovino’s energy level. Today it was high. Lovino was bright-eyed and determined.

It was a refreshing sight. A nice, familiar sight, since Antonio had been exceedingly cautious of late. He had tried to be subtle since the boy’s birthday, but he was sure Lovino had noticed the change in his behaviour, if nothing else. Of course, that was _before_ he had smashed an inkwell against the wall. It was good to see Lovino acting like himself again, despite his temper. It made Antonio less afraid of what he had done.

 _If Lovino remembered me kissing him he would’ve said something by now_. He took comfort in the boy’s ignorance. _He doesn’t remember_ , _and that’s good_.

Lovino said: " _Puh-lease_?"

Miguel exchanged an exasperated glance with Jorge before sternly saying: "No. None of us are taking you ashore. The captain would skewer us if we did."

Lovino exhaled dramatically. "Toni? No he wouldn't, he's too soft. He probably won't even notice I'm gone."

Antonio felt the verbal blow, but steeled himself against it. He was about to interject, to save Miguel and Jorge, but Lovino continued:

"Come on, I thought we were friends!"

Jorge folded his big, dark-skinned arms. "Yesterday you called me a slimy, spineless jellyfish."

"Only in jest, obviously—"

"No, Lovino. The answer is no," Miguel silenced him. "I won't deliberately disobey the captain’s orders. I like my organs were they are, thanks."

Lovino scoffed at their retreat. "Toni? You're afraid of _Toni_ —? _Pah_! Well, fine then! I don't need you! I'm not afraid of him! He doesn’t own _me_ , so I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!"

Antonio noted the way Lovino's hip cocked, achieving a devil-may-care posture despite his flushed skin.

_So beautiful_ , he sighed in resignation. 

The sunlight was bright, making Lovino's skin look like delicious dark-caramel. The sea's climate and wild temperament agreed with the fiery fifteen-year-old. Antonio wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but he was afraid of what the physical contact might provoke. It wasn't as if Lovino was consciously trying to entice Antonio, after all. He was just a vain boy who liked the way he looked in form-fitting clothes. He liked his hair to be perfectly styled. He knew how attractive he was and liked looking his best. It wasn't as if he was hoping to catch Antonio's eye—right?

"Fucking Toni," Lovino grumbled. He kicked a wooden bucket, making a racket. "Doesn't he know who I am? I'm Lovino fucking Vargas, you bastards. I'm a fucking lord. He can't keep me locked-up here. I’m free to go wherever I want. And I will. I'm not afraid of him, and I'm not going to let a bunch of pirates order me around like a—"

"Lovi?" Antonio interrupted.

Lovino spun around in surprise. "Oh, Toni," he said sheepishly. Antonio cocked an eyebrow. Lovino stood taller and planted a hand on his hip. “What do you want?”

"Please stop pestering the crew, they have work to do. Nobody is going to take you ashore, _chiquito_ ," Antonio said as mildly as possible. He didn't have the energy, nor will to argue with Lovino just then.

"Then I guess you'll have to take me," Lovino argued. "I've never been to Marseille. Please, Toni? Or I'll go by myself," he threatened, knowing that Antonio would follow if he tried.

"Not tonight. I haven't got the time and you can't go alone."

Lovino exhaled. "When are you going to stop treating me like a child? I've been a pirate—"

"A cabin-boy."

"—for three years! I've learnt sailing and swordsmanship and I've even fired a pistol!"

"Once. And you sprained your wrist because of the kick-back," Antonio reminded him. "I'm sorry, Lovi, but it's too dangerous right now. I've just been ashore and it's crawling with sailors. The shopkeepers are having enough trouble trying to placate them. Nobody would blink at you getting hurt. And I found my picture posted to a wall. A wanted-poster. If someone recognized me—or worse, _you_ —what would happen?"

"I can protect myself," Lovino proclaimed, patting the epée on his hip. "I'm a capable swordsman, I can take on anyone who dares to challenge me.

“You don't believe me?" he noted Antonio's pitying expression. It aggravated his temper, which made his cheeks flush redder. "I'm not a baby, Toni, I'm fifteen! You don't have to protect me! You're not my guardian, and I'm not your responsibility! I can fight my own battles! I don't need you anymore!" he snapped.

Antonio couldn’t have been more shocked or upset it Lovino had slapped him across the face. The boy’s eyes grew wide for a moment, when he realized what he had said, but his lips sealed shut, refusing to explain or apologize. He held the Spaniard’s gaze for a moment in challenge, but Antonio did not want to fight.

_I’m not going to fight you_ , _Lovino. Especially when you’re right._

Slowly, Antonio nodded he agreement. "I know," he said quietly. And walked away.

* * *

**VARGAS**

Lovino eyed his reflection, trying to decide if he looked older and more mature than he had a year ago. He was taller, if not broader. Despite two-and-a-half years of fencing lessons, he was physically no stronger now than he had been before, though his endurance had improved. Admittedly, the only thing about him that had grown was his ego (and vanity).

 _I look good_ , he thought immodestly, trying to smooth an errant curl. _I look like a noble_.

Satisfied, he slipped his epée into his sash and grabbed Antonio's coat. The breeze had cooled as the sun set and he wanted something to protect himself from the cold, as well as unwanted eyes.

He _was_ a little about going into the port alone, but he tried to hide it as best as he could. He needed to prove to Antonio—to all of them—that he could take care of himself. Otherwise, they would never treat him as an equal.

 _I won't go far_ , he decided, slipping into the coat. _And I won’t stay long._

He knew that Antonio would lecture him afterward, but he was prepared for it. Unlike the crew, he was not afraid of Antonio’s punishments, because the man was more bluster than action, in Lovino’s experience.

 _What can he_ really _do to me_? _Nothing_ , _because I’m not his ward and I’m not a child._

Maybe, after tonight, Antonio would finally accept that.

That thought alone propelled Lovino forward, hoping that his temporary mutiny would be worth it in the end.

He reached for the door, but it swung open before he touched it.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

Antonio nearly hit Lovino with the door as it swung inward.

The first thing he noticed was the boy's attire: knee-high boots laced over tight black trousers, a crimson-red sash tied around his waist, adorned with his epée, and a long-sleeved white shirt tucked neatly in. He carried himself with all of the confidence of a peacock flaunting its plumage. And he looked good— _really_ good. The second thing Antonio noticed was Lovino's expression: cocky and self-assured, but tense, ready for a fight.

"I'm going ashore," he said, sounding less like the wolf-pup he had been and more like a fully-grown wolf. In a show of defiance, he flipped the collar of Antonio's coat up. The coat was too big for him, especially in the shoulders, but it somehow added to his saucy charm. His beautiful, youthful face was set in an uncompromising scowl not unlike the pout he used to wear as a child. Only now his velvety lips were fuller, his cheekbones were higher, and his hazel eyes burned with a hotter fire.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, Antonio thought as he stared at Lovino, to be annoyed and aroused at the same time.

_Everything about you has grown-up except for your attitude_ , _Lovino. You're still a brat. Only_ _now you're a brat I want to fuck_.

He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t deny that he was sexually attracted to the fifteen-year-old boy. Which was exactly why Lovino had to return to Italy as soon as possible.

Antonio stepped stiffly into the cabin. "You're not going anywhere," he said, trying to ignore the ache in his— _ahem_ —heart. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

 _Calm_ , _stay calm_ , he told himself, trying to ignore the voice that growled lust in his head, urging him to take.

“You won’t go by yourself,” he said, calling the boy’s bluff. (He hoped it was a bluff.) “You hate being alone.”

"I'm not afraid," Lovino replied. Antonio could feel his eyes boring into him, but refused to look.

“Lovi,” he said instead, moving further into the cabin. “We need to talk.”

Lovino rubbed a smudge of sea-salt off Antonio's coat and deliberately fingered the hilt of his sword. "Not now, I'm leaving to go ashore," he said, making to walk by Antonio.

Antonio grabbed the boy's shoulder, applying the gentlest pressure to stop him. But even that sent a shiver of anticipation up his spine. "It's important."

"I don't care. If it's so important then come with me."

"Lovino, please—"

"No!" Lovino snapped. He slapped Antonio's hand away, his temper flaring. "You can't just order me around like I'm one of your crew. I might be a cabin-boy, but I'm also Lovino Vargas, and I'm done taking orders from you."

"When have you _ever_?" Antonio returned. "It's been three years and you still refuse to obey my orders. This is _my_ ship, Lovino. I'm the captain and you're the cabin-boy. Do I have to draw you a fucking diagram? I'm the top and you're the fucking bottom!" he snapped.

Lovino blushed, but retaliated: "I’m a lord! You're just an orphan who nobody wanted! Your own mother didn't want you, that's why she abandoned you! If Roma hadn't found you, you'd be worth nothing—"

SLAP

Antonio froze. He had never struck Lovino before. His hand tingled from the contact.

His sudden, impulsive fury fell quickly into fear as he looked from his raised hand to the boy in stupefied horror. Lovino’s eyes were big in disbelief as he reached up and cupped his reddening cheek.

Antonio trembled. “I-I-I—”

_No. Oh no_. _Oh God_ , _please no_ , _no_ , _no._

He strode past Lovino to the window, stood there, and held his breath. His hands balled into fists.

_Not now_ , _please not now_. _Not him_.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus, but by then Lovino had recovered from shock. He launched an infuriated verbal attack, which did nothing but fan the flames of Antonio’s rapid loss of control.

He was moving before he could stop himself. He was grabbing Lovino’s biceps and squeezing hard, nearly lifting him off his feet. He was snarling in the boy’s face:

“And who are _you_?” he said, showing his teeth like a dog. “Who is _Lovino Vargas_ , except a helpless, spoiled lordling who hides behind his family’s name? You’ve earned _nothing_! You don’t know what blood and sweat and tears really are, or what it means to survive! Nothing you have is worth anything, because none of it is _yours_!”

“I-I-I—I’ve earned plenty!” Lovino fought. “I earned my sword—”

“No,” said Antonio. “ _I_ bought it for you.”

“I earned it by disarming you, by defeating you in combat!”

Antonio’s laugh was dark and humourless. “You think you defeated me? _Me_? You stupid brat.”

_Stop_ , _stop it_ —

“I let you win.”

The confession took Lovino off-guard. He looked up at Antonio with hurt in his eyes. “No… that’s not true. I practised. I practiced for _two years_ and I beat you! That was me!”

“That was _me_ ,” Antonio corrected. “Me taking pity on you, because you really, honestly thought you could defeat _me_ in battle. Thought your pathetic little epée could fight my cutlass and win.”

_Stop it_ , _stop taunting him_. _Stop hurting him_.

“You’ve won _nothing_ ,” Antonio sneered, his face inches from Lovino’s. “You _have_ nothing. Without your family, you _are_ nothing!”

Antonio saw Lovino’s eyes fill with tears; saw the heartbroken look of the betrayed on his beautiful face. He pushed himself away from Antonio and Antonio let him go.

“You lied to me.”

“Yes.”

“About what?” Lovino asked, sad and angry. “ _What else have you lied about_? What else have you—”

Lovino stuck his hands into Antonio’s coat pockets in search of a handkerchief, but stopped suddenly and drew out a letter. Roma’s letter.

Antonio’s blood went cold. “Lovino, don’t—“

“What is this?”

“Lovino, that’s private!” Antonio grabbed for it, but Lovino back away, reading.

“It’s from Roma,” he said, confused. “Are you… sending me away?”

Antonio opened his mouth to explain, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. This would be the final nail in the coffin of his and Lovino’s relationship, and maybe that was for the best.

“No,” Lovino said, shaking his head, backing away. “No, you can’t. I’m not leaving.”

He was crying, now. Antonio had made him cry.

“ _I’m not leaving_!” he yelled.

Antonio looked at him, the beautiful, fragile lordling who didn’t belong on the pirate ship; who was going to get hurt if he stayed there any longer. He saw Lovino’s plea, his devotion and desperation. Then he saw the blooming bruise on the boy’s cheek.

“Yes,” he said quietly. Decisively. “You are leaving.”

“Is it because you kissed me?”

It was Antonio’s turn to be taken by surprise.

“You told me… you loved me.” Lovino’s words were soft, choked. He crushed the letter in his fist, looking more helpless than Antonio had ever seen him. “Was that a lie, too?”

Bang, bang, bang, went the nail in the coffin. Of their friendship, and of any romance they might have had.

“ _Tonio_ , _please_.”

Antonio didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. And Lovino left.


	6. Five

**VARGAS**

Lovino ran.

He burst from the cabin and raced across deck, dodging the crew, who stepped quickly aside in shock but not surprise. He heard Jorge yell at him to be careful, assuming the boy was headed to the galley to sulk, but his tone changed when Lovino kept running. He slipped past the guards and leapt from the gangplank onto the wharf. Miguel raced after him as Lovino dove into the crowd, disappearing into the crush of bodies. The first-mate was frantic. He shouted orders, calling angrily for Lovino to return, but Lovino ignored him. Lovino weaved around the bigger, meaner men of the port and soon lost himself in a labyrinth of buildings: shops, smiths, wine-houses, brothels, and hotels. Eventually, his pace slowed to a walk. His heart was pounding, his were hands shaking. His bruised cheek throbbed and his eyes stung with tears that he quickly wiped away. He placed a tentative hand on the pommel of his epée and let Antonio’s blood-red coat float around him, like a cape.

The tavern he chose was a small, swarthy place that smelled of sweat, sick, and tobacco smoke. It was the last place one would expect to find a high-born lord, and the last place _El Escape_ ’s crew would think to look for him. No one who valued cleanliness would step inside, which is exactly why Lovino did.

If Miguel was going to scour the port in search of him, Lovino wasn’t going to make it easy. He didn’t want to go back to the ship yet.

He didn’t want to go back to Antonio.

He almost retreated when he saw the patrons inside—they sneered and leered in equal numbers—but malice silenced his better judgement.

_They’ll never look for me here_ , he thought spitefully, adopting a confident gait and a flippant expression.

“Barkeep!” he ordered, sliding onto a stool.

The owner glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. He was a rotund man with a weathered face and less than the preferred amount of teeth, but Lovino refused to be repulsed by the man’s unfriendly appearance—and scent—or intimidated by his blatant discourtesy. He slapped his hand on the countertop, and demanded:

“Your finest wine, please.”

A couple of sailors chuckled, but the owner didn’t move; not until Lovino tossed him a gold doubloon.

“Surely that ought to buy me a drink or two?” he asked, hiding his ignorance behind a cocky smirk.

As it happened, it did better than two drinks. It bought five vinegar-tasting cups of watered wine before the owner demanded another coin. Lovino was sure he was being cheated, but the more he drank the less he cared. And he _really_ didn’t care that he was spending Antonio’s money.

_Toni_ , _you fucking jerk_ , he thought, laying his head down on folded arms. The red coat smelled like brine and gun-smoke, but it smelled like Antonio, too: the faintest scent of olive trees. Lovino buried his nose in it and tried not to cry, waiting for someone to find him but hoping they wouldn’t.

_I just want to be alone_ , he lied to himself. He had to. _Because if I go back_ , _Toni will just send me away. He doesn’t want me anymore_ , _maybe he never did._

_Maybe he doesn’t love me at all._

Lovino chugged what was left in his cup, telling himself it was the bitter drink that made his eyes water. It was one-part cheap wine and two-parts water and vinegar, but it served its purpose. It drowned his hopes.

He snapped his fingers and ordered another.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

Err, Captain—?"

Antonio lowered the rum bottle and wiped his mouth. “ _What_?” he growled.

Miguel’s repentant expression was not reassuring. It struck a nerve with the unhappy pirate captain, who had been wallowing in guilt and self-pity for the past two hours.

“There’s a—um, a problem, sir,” said Miguel anxiously. “It’s Lovino.”

Antonio’s eyes narrowed; his chest tightened. “ _What_ about Lovino?”

“Well, you know how impulsive he is… strong-willed and stubborn. And he, uh… He was very upset earlier, and he ran, and…” Miguel sighed. “We tried to find him, Captain, we really did.”

“ _Where_ ,” said Antonio in a low, dangerous voice, “ _is he_?”

“Gone, sir. Lovino’s gone.”

The rum bottle shattered against the wall. Miguel flinched.

“ _Get. Out_.”

Antonio clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe, to stay calm, but it was futile. He stared hard at the door, but his vision blurred and his jaw twitched. He bit down on his lip and tasted blood. He stood and found himself shaking in anger, in fear. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear the pulse of blood in his ears. He wanted to punch something, someone. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit. He was losing his self-control and he knew it. He could feel his consciousness—his awareness—slipping away.

_Lovino_ , he thought, grabbing his cutlass.

_Lovino_ , he worried, loading his pistols.

The crew scattered when Antonio emerged, kicking the cabin door open and letting it slam back behind him. No one tried to stop him as he stormed past. They shied away in silence, in fear, in pity. Miguel crossed himself and muttered a prayer for his captain and the Italian boy he was after, but Antonio didn’t see it. He didn’t see anything but Lovino’s ghost in his mind: yelling, running, crying.

_Damn you_ , _Lovino_!

Antonio’s rage burned like Greek-fire as he shoved into the crowd.

_When I get my hands on you_ —

* * *

**VARGAS**

Lovino was dozing, but flinched when he felt a hand slip into Antonio's coat pocket.

"Hey!" he snapped, slapping the would-be thief. The barstool wobbled; he clutched the counter to keep his balance. "The fuck are you doing?"

“Ah, you _are_ awake,” the man chuckled. He didn’t seem perturbed to be caught stealing, nor did anyone else seem to acknowledge the attempt. He glanced at the table behind him, where his crewmates sat grinning. “Alright, it’s alright,” he continued raising his hands in playful innocence. “Didn’t mean to scare you, boy. Calm down. You’re not a gutter-rat, are you? No, you’re much too clean,” he mused, studying Lovino now.

On-guard, Lovino held his stare, but gasped when the man suddenly leant down and pressed his nose to the boy’s head. He jumped back in alarm, hitting the counter and falling off the stool.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled, but it was lost in the sailors’ laughter.

“Awe, don’t be frightened, little lord,” said his assailant. “My friends and I just wanted to thank-you for your generosity.”

He opened his fist to reveal a handful of doubloons.

“Hey!” Lovino snapped, crawling—with difficulty—back to his feet. His body felt heavy and his movements sluggish. “Give that back!”

The sailor flipped a coin up, then caught it. “What’s a little lord like you doing here anyhow? Didn’t your wet-nurse ever warn you not to talk to strangers, _chér_? A pretty boy like you,” he reached for Lovino, “would get gobbled up in a heartbeat.”

“ _Don’t touch me_!” This time, Lovino drew his sword. “I’m warning you,” he threatened, but to his dismay, the sailors merely laughed, erupting into a chorus of mock-encouragement and appreciation. A couple of them even lifted their mugs to the boy’s nerve.

“Go on, Charles, give the little lord a duel!”

“Teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget!”

Charles smiled and unsheathed a cutlass. “That’s a fine toothpick you’ve got,” he teased Lovino’s epée. “I’d like to have it along with everything else in your pockets. In fact, that’s a nice coat, too. I think I’ll strip you bare once I’m done with you, boy.”

“We could strip him bare right now,” suggested a low, sultry voice. “I’m rather more interested in what’s in his trousers.”

Lovino spun around in surprise. A tall, black-eyed sailor was standing quietly behind him. “F-Fuck off!” he shouted. “I—I’ll fucking kill you! Don’t think I won’t!”

In panic, he slashed the epée wildly, missing by a mile.

Charles laughed. “Do you really think you can disarm me with _that_? That’s not even your sword, is it, boy? You don’t even know how to use it!”

Lovino felt his face heat as he tried again.

_I’m a swordsman_! he thought in determination. _I am_!

Provoked by the taunts, he lunged at Charles in a fleet-footed assault. He could do this; he had practised! It didn’t matter if his vision was a little fuzzy, or if everything felt like it was happening in slow-motion. He would prove to this sailor—to Antonio, to himself—that he was capable of taking care of himself.

“I’ll—I’ll— _ah_!”

Too used to fighting on _El Escape’s_ rolling decks, he tripped over his own feet and stumbled sideways. He clenched the epée too hard and the blade clanged, wobbling on impact with the sturdy cutlass. The sailors all laughed at him, howling and shouting in delight, all of them except for the black-eyed man, who watched Lovino as if he was prey. It unnerved him greatly, making him not want to put the man at his back. He tried to maneuver around the black-eyed man and so didn’t see Charles’ attack until it came crashing down. The force of the blow ripped the epée from his hand and flew halfway across the room before falling with a lightweight clatter.

Charles clucked his tongue while his comrade collected the sword.

“We’ll be having that,” he said.

“ _No_!” Lovino burst, desperate now. “You can’t! It’s mine, give it back! Toni gave it to me!”

“Oh?” mused the black-eyed man, grabbing Lovino from behind. He pulled the boy against his chest, holding him captive. His touch sent a shiver of revulsion through Lovino. “Who is this Toni, _mon chér petit_? Is he your Papa? Is he your brother? _Is he your lover_?” he purred in Lovino’s ear.

“Get off me! Don’t t-t-touch me, you bastard!”

Lovino was mortified to hear his voice tremble, to feel the tears in his eyes. He was truly frightened now, and the black-eyed sailor knew it. He took Lovino’s face in his hand and lifted his head, breathing down on him the smell of ripe tobacco. His voice was a gravelly hum, and his pupils were dilated with lust.

“Ease off, Arie,” said Charles casually. “You didn’t win the duel, I did. The prize is mine.”

He opened his arms wide, as if to embrace the whole room. _What is he_ —Lovino thought, before Arie thrust him into Charles’ arms. He hit Charles’ chest and instantly found himself locked in the man’s grasp, his body pressed tight.

“Let go!” he struggled, wriggling and kicking. “You fucking bastard, let me go!”

“Oh, don’t be like that, little lord. We’re upstanding gentlemen, can’t you tell? Our Mamas all taught us how to _share_.”

Charles pushed Lovino back to Arie, whose hands slid from the boy’s back to his buttocks, squeezing before he passed him on to a third sailor, then a fourth. Soon, all of them had joined in the belittling game of passing Lovino back-and-forth between them, taunting and groping him as they did. They grabbed at his shirt, pulling off buttons, and ripped the sash from his waist, undressing him. They mocked his helplessness and disorientation, miming his shrieks of anger and fear. Lovino tried to fight, but the men were too strong and too many and he was just a boy.

_Just a stupid_ , _reckless boy_.

When Charles threw him against a table, Lovino covered his face with his hands and utterly surrendered.

“ _Take it_!” he cried. “ _Just take it all—the gold—everything_ , _I don’t care_! _Just leave me alone_!”

“Oh, but _chér_ ,” said Arie, pressing down on Lovino, “we _are_ taking everything.”

Lovino’s blood went cold and a new kind of fear seized him. He was frozen for a moment, shocked to his core. Then he began to trash.

“ _No_! _No_ , _please—no_!”

Lovino screamed.

He screamed when Arie forced him down, bent over the tabletop. He screamed when the others—countless hands—roughly relieved him of his remaining clothes. He screamed when Charles fisted a handful of his silky hair and jerked, pressing his cheek against the table’s sticky surface. He screamed loudly and shamefully in desperate abandon, hoping that someone would hear him; that someone would care enough to help. In desperation, he looked to the owner, watching from a safe distance.

“ _Help me—p-please_!” Lovino begged, but the man walked away.

Lovino closed his eyes as his screams became whimpers, then sobs. The men touched him, violated him. He felt a body at his backside and braced himself for the inevitable pain, felt a hard, wet cock pressed to his entrance.

In that moment, his heart hurt more than anything.

_I’m sorry_ , he thought to Antonio, to himself, to everyone who had tried to keep him safe. _I’m so_ , _so sorry_.

* * *

An ear-splitting scream filled the tavern. Rats scattered and birds took flight outside. They heard it on the street. They heard it in the brothel next-door. Several people stopped in shock, then hurried onward, afraid of what had happened.

Lovino heard the terrible, bone-rattling scream and was so frightened that it took him a moment to realize it hadn’t come from him. It took him a moment to realize that he was no longer trapped against the tabletop, no longer being held down, and the moment he did realize it, his legs buckled. He sat on the filthy floor, dazed, and staring in horrified fascination and disbelief at Arie’s decapitated head. Then his gaze shifted to the body, carved from neck to waist like a Christmas goose; carved nearly in half. Slowly, Lovino lifted his head and a strangled gasp escaped him.

Antonio, covered in blood. His clothes, his skin, his hair—all of him was dripping in red. He looked deadly, like the Antonio from Lovino’s nightmare, except this Antonio did not look sad or sorry. This Antonio looked like a killer. Or, a man gone insane.

Lovino watched, petrified into silence as the Spaniard cut through the French sailors like vegetable stalks. He slashed and stabbed, spilling rivets of blood as he slaughtered the men in a furious, burning passion. It splattered the floor and the walls; it freckled Lovino, who sat motionless. Charles slipped in the blood of his comrade and fell under Antonio’s cutlass. He planted it so deeply into the man’s chest cavity that, instead of withdrawing it, he left it, needless of it, and attacked the remaining sailors with his bare hands. Lovino watched as Antonio beat them to death, his fists serving blow after blow after blow as his wild green eyes flashing, seething with adrenaline and rage. The last sailor begged for his life, but there was no mercy in Captain Antonio Carriedo, dread pirate of the sea.

The man’s body landed with a dull thud and then everything fell into silence.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

Antonio closed his eyes and collapsed.

He sank to his knees in a puddle of warm blood, breathing hard as awareness resurfaced. Slowly, he opened his eyes and surveyed the damage. He lifted his shaking hands, covered in blood, and clutched the cross at his throat. He swallowed.

Then he saw Lovino.

Lovino, hiding beneath a table, staring at him.

His first thought was, _Lovino is alive and unhurt_! and his heart whispered a prayer in gratitude. But it was short-lived relief. Because Lovino had _seen_.

He had seen Antonio slaughter those men. He had seen Antonio lose control. He had seen the monster that Antonio really was.

The boy’s beautiful eyes brimmed with tears. He stared silently at Antonio, unblinking, his soft lips parted in shock. His body—his naked, abused body—was trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice. He seemed paralysed.

Antonio swallowed, tasted blood. “Lovi, I—”

It was supposed to be an apology, an explanation, but he choked on Lovino’s name and couldn’t go on, not as long as those tear-filled eyes were staring so intently at him.

Antonio bowed his head, hating himself more than he ever had in his entire life.

Then Lovino did something unexpected. He rose slowly and shakily to his feet and, without taking his eyes off of Antonio, started forward in a half-daze, like a sleepwalker. Absently, he stepped over the decapitated corpses, his bare feet sliding through the blood, and he stopped in front of his bewildered Spaniard. Naked, he stared down at Antonio, his breaths coming fast and ragged, his lip trembling.

“ _Toni_ ,” he whispered.

And he fell, sobbing, into Antonio’s arms.

* * *

**VARGAS**

Antonio wrapped Lovino in his coat, retrieved the epée, and carried them both back to the ship. Lovino clung tightly to Antonio’s neck, burying his face so that he might have been anyone—a lord, a damsel, an orphan. Anyone except Lovino Vargas, the foolish, reckless lordling who had hurt all of the people he loved, including himself. He didn’t want to be that person right now, maybe never again.

No one spoke as they boarded _El Escape_. They might have looked, but Lovino didn’t see, because he hid his face in shame.

“Bring hot water and soap,” Antonio ordered.

They entered the captain’s cabin and the night disappeared. The window was closed and the door was shut. Antonio set Lovino down in the middle of the floor and lit a single candle.

They were safe.

Leonardo delivered a bucket of steaming water and soap. His pitying expression spoke volumes, but he left without a verbal word. Antonio took a cloth, soaked it, and handed it to Lovino.

“What about you?” he asked in a small, thin voice.

Antonio shook his head and left the cabin. A moment later, Lovino heard a splash: the sound of someone jumping overboard into the harbour. By the time Antonio returned, his dark hair dripping but otherwise dried, and wearing only a different, unbloodied pair of trousers, Lovino was clean and dressed in a long nightshirt.

“You’re shivering,” he said, seeing gooseflesh prickle Antonio’s bare skin.

“It’s a cold night,” Antonio replied, but it was an offhand comment, as if he didn’t truly feel it.

Lovino watched Antonio collect his ruined garments and chuck them out the window before closing it again. Then he went to the bed and sunk down into it, still refusing to meet Lovino’s eyes. He swallowed.

“You saved me, Toni,” he said softly, standing in the middle of the cabin. “Thank-you—”

“Lovi, _don’t_.”

“But it’s true,” Lovino pressed. He strode to the edge of the bed, but didn’t touch it. He hesitated. “And what I said before—that’s true, too. I love you—”

“ _Please_ ,” Antonio closed his eyes, “ _don’t_.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Lovino blinked away tears. “Make what harder?” he asked, playing dumb; clinging to a hope that was rapidly slipping away. His throat felt swollen when he prompted: “Toni?

“You’re going to send me away, aren’t you?” he said in the silence.

Finally, Antonio opened his eyes and looked at Lovino. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because you’re in danger—”

“No, I’m not!” Lovino burst. A tear fell from his eye, then another. “I’m not in danger, because you’re here. You’ll always be here and you’ll always save me—”

“ _Damn it_ , _Lovino_!” Antonio snapped. His hands curled into fists and he sat up, glaring at Lovino with a twisted, tortured expression. “You’ve been in danger since the moment you boarded this ship! Every goddamn day you spend with me, you’re at risk, because the danger isn’t out there—” he gestured to the window “—it’s right _here_ ,” he said, clutching his chest. “Why can’t you understand that?”

“Because it’s not true!”

“You saw what I did to those men! You saw what I’m capable of!”

“ _I don’t care_!” Lovino cried.

Antonio shook his head and sat back, covering his face with his hands. “ _I can’t do this again_ ,” he whispered.

Lovino frowned in puzzlement. Tentatively, he eased onto the bed and, reaching up, gently pulled Antonio’s hands down. Antonio tried to fight it; he whimpered in protest, but Lovino was firm. He looked into the Spaniard’s green eyes and saw a deep, nurtured sadness. Softly, he said: “What aren’t you tell me?”

Antonio swallowed, pursed his lips, looked away from Lovino and then back again. Slowly, he let out a long, resigned breath.

“I was… a child,” he began, his words hesitant, almost afraid. “Roma found me, took me in. He saved me and I was grateful, but I wasn’t… happy, not until… Another boy came. Francis. You don’t remember him, do you? But he was very special. He was… my brother, my best friend. The first person I ever really, truly l-loved.” His voice hitched and he looked away. “I was _happy_. For the first time in my life, I was happy with him. With you and Feli. I thought… I thought I was the luckiest boy in the world. We grew-up a little… not enough. And we were fearless, Francis and I. We didn’t think that anything could hurt us as long as we were part of the Vargas family. _We thought we were safe_ ,” he whispered.

Lovino waited, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t want Antonio to continue, didn’t want to see him so broken, so _afraid_. But he had to know the truth.

“One night,” said Antonio, so quietly Lovino barely heard him, “when we were fourteen, the guards… the _Vargas_ guards came to us, and… I fought them. I tried so hard to stop them, but I… I couldn’t. I wasn’t s-s-strong enough, and…”

Antonio squeezed his eyes shut. Lovino clutched his hands tightly.

“They did to Francis what those sailors tried to do to you tonight. Only, they succeeded. And I… _I couldn’t do a goddamn thing_.

“I was fourteen when I watched my best friend raped and beaten by seven soldiers,” he confessed, opening his eyes to reveal his greens glassy with tears. “And I lost him. I lost my Francis, because… because I couldn’t… He ran away. And I never saw him again.

“And it’s all my fault,” he broke down, letting his tears fall. “I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t protect him, because I was _weak_ ,” he spat. “I wasn’t enough.”

“Toni, no…” said Lovino, squeezing his hands. “That’s not true. It’s wasn’t your—”

“One night I saw him,” Antonio interrupted, and his voice was deeper, darker now. “One of the soldiers who had hurt my Francis, who had taken him away from me. The guards had all been dismissed from Roma’s service, but it wasn’t enough. I saw him sitting in a tavern, drinking and _smiling_ like he hadn’t done anything wrong. Like he hadn’t _destroyed_ my friend and I. I don’t think he even recognized me. I didn’t give him time. I had spent two years in fear, clinging desperately to you and Feli, and boiling inside. I didn’t even hesitate when I saw him. I didn’t speak and I didn’t stop, because suddenly I _wasn’t_ afraid anymore. I was angry. So, so angry. And I took a carving knife from the table as I passed, and I killed him. I cut his throat, and I stabbed him over and over and over again until I was bathed in his blood.

“I had to leave Rome after that. That’s why I left you and Feli, because I had to find them. All of them. And I had to punish them for what they did.

“I’ve been hunting them for ten years, and I’m almost there,” he said, a mad gleam in his eye. “I’ve almost repaid my debt. One more, Lovi… just one.”

Lovino let go of Antonio’s hands and curled his own against his chest, shrinking back. “Oh, Toni…” he said, looking at his dearest friend, the man _he_ loved. But he didn’t know what to say, because Antonio was somewhere else.

Eventually, it was Antonio who spoke:

“Oh,” he said, seeing Lovino in front of him. “I’m sorry, Lovi. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just… Now you know what I am. Now you know why I can’t keep you here. I’m not strong enough to lose anyone else, especially you,” he said, cupping Lovino’s cheek.

Lovino pressed into the warm, intimate touch, knowing there was nothing he could do to keep it. Nothing he could say to change Antonio’s mind; not about Lovino, and not about himself. He could feel both of their hearts breaking in that tender, sorrowful touch.

“I loved Francis very, _very_ much,” said Antonio softly. “And now I love you even more.

“You can hate me, if you want to. I hate me, too. But Lovi,” he said, withdrawing his hand, “it’s time for you to go home.”


	7. Interlude

**NORTH SEA, 1738**

Francis Bonnefoi bolted upright, breathing hard. He was covered in a cold sweat and a lingering, phantom touch that made him shiver as the echo of voices faded in his mind:

 _Don’t be frightened_ , _little frog. We’re not going to hurt you._

 _So beautiful_ , _Francis_ , _my dear._

_Hold him down._

_Toni_! _Toni_ , _please—help me_! _Please help me_! _Toni_!

_Just relax_ , _little frog. You’ll enjoy it more if you do._

 _TONI_!

Francis didn’t know what he had expected Antonio to do back then. He was no older or stronger or braver than Francis had been, but Francis had been scared. So, so scared, and so he had cried-out for his friend; the friend, whom they had beaten into unconsciousness. Francis had watched them do it; watched the men who were supposed to protect them beat his friend nearly to death as they took turns raping him. The pain, the fear, the anger, the grief—

Slowly, the past receded as he sat up in his bed, in his cabin, on his ship. No one’s hands held him down, no one’s screams filled the room. It was quiet. Cold, but quiet. His eyes were wet and his jaw ached from clenching it in his sleep. He let the cold night calm his racing heart as the blanket pooled at his waist, and put his face in his hands.

“Francis?”

“A nightmare,” he said to Arthur. “Just a nightmare. I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”

He tensed when Arthur touched his thigh under the blanket, but relaxed at the warm, soothing touch. The Englishman was buried to his freckled nose under the heavy wool blanket, but his green eyes were bright in the dark. The silver moonlight on his pale, fine-boned face made him look otherworldly, like the fey he told stories about, but his voice was low and comforting. His presence, the solidness of his lean body reminded Francis that he was not alone in the dark. Not alone in the world. Not anymore.

“A nightmare?” Arthur asked, pushing himself to his elbows. He looked inquisitively up at Francis. “About what?”

Francis swallowed. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Arthur tilted his head, disbelieving him.

“Really, _chér_ ,” said Francis, smiling meekly to soothe his lover’s concern. “It doesn’t matter anymore.

“I need to check on the boys,” he added, overcome with a deep, disconcerting need to see them safe. Before Arthur could protest, he had crawled out of the bed.

“They’re sleeping, love, don’t disturb them.”

“I won’t,” Francis promised, tugging on his trousers. “I just… need to see them.”

He left the cabin and was immediately shocked by the cold. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and he could feel _The Lily Maid_ sway as a strong north wind rocked her, tethered as she was to a Danish wharf. He hoped the boys were warm enough. Alfred would be sleeping like a rock regardless, he knew; and Mathieu never seemed to feel the cold, much to Francis’ disbelief, but he still worried. He still fretted. He was their father and that was his job, after all: to keep them safe.

_They’re safe_ , he told himself, walking faster. He knew they were safe, asleep in their cabin. It was foolish to worry about them, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he wouldn’t sleep now until he was sure.

The boys’ cabin was darker than Francis and Arthur’s, because it lacked moonlight, but he navigated it based on memory.

Alfred’s bed was in a cubby on the port-side, from where he could hear peaceful, kitten-soft snores and knew that Alfred was enjoying a deep, restful sleep. He still slept like a toddler with his arms and legs flung-out like a starfish, dominating as much space as humanly possible. Francis knelt, smiling at the seven-year-old as he touched his soft cheek.

“ _Alfred_ ,” he whispered. “ _My brave little fighter. Sleep well_ , _my baby. Papa will keep you safe._ ”

He kissed Alfred’s head and then crossed the cabin in a single stride to the starboard-side.

Mathieu was harder to see, buried—like Arthur—beneath his heavy blankets. Only his butter-blonde head was visible, the rest of him was curled into a defensive, unobtrusive ball against the wall.

 _He’s too used to sleeping with Alfred_ , Francis chuckled.

Even after Arthur had officially adopted them—Francis couldn’t, on account of him being legally dead—their memories of abandonment lingered, especially at night. They had slept together in one bunk or the other for a long time, leaving the other cold and unoccupied because they felt safer together. So, Francis was glad to see them sleeping separately now, because it was proof of their trust and happiness. He was grateful for it, for _them_. But his smile was still bittersweet.

“ _Never again_ ,” he promised Mathieu, gently petting the boy’s curls. “ _I’ll never leave you again_ , _Mathieu_ , _my angel. I’ll never let anything or anyone hurt you, I promise_.”

“Nightmares can’t hurt you, love.”

Francis straightened and looked back at Arthur, who was waiting patiently in the doorframe. His smile was gentle, a lock of wheat-blonde hair flopping into his eyes (it needed cutting, again). He didn’t elaborate when Francis didn’t reply; didn’t prod or provoke, and for that Francis was grateful. Arthur simply stood there, his arms hanging at his sides and his posture relaxed—open, welcoming. If Francis walked toward him he knew those skinny arms would reach up to embrace him and those strong hands would hold him tight.

A moment later, they did. Francis wrapped himself around Arthur’s body and was reminded again of why he was here: in his lover’s arms, in his children’s cabin, in his home. The past was cruel and still sometimes haunted him late at night, but everything he had suffered had led him here, to this place, to the people he loved, where he belonged.

“ _I don’t want to die anymore_ ,” he whispered, resting his head on the Englishman’s shoulder.

Arthur didn’t know what Francis was talking about, but he didn’t need to. He squeezed Francis and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“ _Good_.

“Now,” he said, pulling back to take Francis’ hand, “it’s late, love. Come back to bed.”


	8. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovino is not happy in this chapter, not happy at all. Sorry. n_n"

**VARGAS**

**ROME, ITALY**

**MAY, 1738**

Lovino sat by the window, staring blankly at the turquoise bay. Sunlight danced on the clear water and kissed the beaches gold, the sloping cliffs of white rock, the pockets of lush vegetation. The Italian coast was beautiful, but Lovino glared antagonistically at it. He didn't want it. He hadn't lived on the mainland since he was twelve. His stomach seemed to drop with _El Escape_ 's anchor as she landed in a secluded bay, only two hours from Rome. High cliffs and twisted olive trees hid the coastal town from view, but Lovino felt trepidation for what was waiting. When he saw the gilded carriage, emblazoned with the Vargas crest, he left the window and retreated into the dark corner of his bed.

_I don’t want to go home_ , he thought, pulling his knees to his chest. _It’s not home without Toni_.

He wiped his eyes, angry with himself, and surprised he had tears left to shed. He had cried every night for the past month. He had fought and argued and begged Antonio to let him stay, but the Spaniard’s resolve was strong. Lovino had nothing left. Nothing left to do, or say. He had already said it all and Antonio was still sending him away.

"Lovi?" said Antonio gently. He closed the cabin's door behind him. "Are you ready?"

Lovino stubbornly avoided Antonio's eyes. He collected his epée and stuck it into his sash, leaving everything else behind. There was nothing else that belonged to him. In truth, the epée didn't belong to him either—Antonio had bought it—but Lovino couldn't bear to part with it. Leaving _El Escape_ was hard enough. It was the only place where he had ever felt certain of himself, happy and free. It was the place he felt loved. Once he left, the epée would be his only remaining tie to the life and love he was leaving.

"Lovi," Antonio repeated. Lovino tried to walk past him, but the Spaniard grabbed his forearm. "Please look at me. Please… don't hate me."

"Hate you?" Lovino stopped. He looked up into Antonio's face, pitying the hurt and confusion he saw there. "You really don't get it, do you?"

Before Antonio could reply, Lovino grabbed his shirt-front and pulled him down into a forceful kiss. Antonio tensed, but Lovino didn’t let go. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to Antonio's hot mouth, unleashing months of wasted emotion in a single, reckless moment.

" _Ti amo_ ," he whispered, pulling back. " _Sono innamorato di te_."

Antonio took a deep breath, held it. His jaw clenched. He swallowed. His hands balled into fists at his sides. Lovino saw it all and knew what it meant, because he _knew_ Antonio. He knew and loved this man, who had been everything to him throughout his life: brother, guardian, teacher, friend, protector, and now—

“ _Yo también te quiero_ ,” Antonio said, so quietly that Lovino saw the shape of the words more than he heard them.

He should have been happy. He _wanted_ to be happy, but all he felt was loss. And it hurt.

It hurt so goddamn much.

Antonio’s green eyes were wet as he took the gold cross from his own neck and looped it over Lovino’s head. Then he pressed a kiss to Lovino’s forehead. A last kiss.

And he said: “ _Adios_.”

* * *

Lovino!”

Roma enveloped Lovino in a tight, welcoming embrace that smelled of leather and spices. He kissed the boy’s head and cheeks and rocked him enthusiastically, then stepped back and held him at arm’s length to inspect.

“Lovino, just look at you!” he beamed. “So beautiful! You’ve grown so much! We’ve all missed you, my dear! Welcome home!”

Lovino smiled wanly for his grandfather's sake, but it was hollow. It felt wrong. He let Roma fuss and gush happily over him as he was paraded to the carriage, refusing to look behind him at the bay where _El Escape_ no longer sat. He didn’t want to think about the ship or the crew, who had been his family for three years. The crew he had come to love, and who—miraculously—had loved him, too. He hadn’t expected the hugs and jokes and life-advice, the smiles and even the tears his farewell had caused. Jorge had squeezed him so tightly it hurt his ribs, and Leonardo had cried. And Miguel—Miguel actually _smiled_ at him and extended his hand. “Good luck, Lovino Vargas,” he had said, making Lovino turn abruptly away to hide his tears.

Antonio hadn’t been part of the goodbye on-deck, but no one had wondered why.

“Feliciano is so excited to see you, Lovino,” said Roma. “He’s missed you so much. We all have,” he repeated.

_I seriously doubt that_ , Lovino thought cynically, eyeing the uninterested sentries who waited by the carriage.

“Signore,” said one, politely offering Lovino a hand.

Lovino ignored it and climbed into the carriage of his own volition, fluidly clearing the distance without use of the step. He didn’t turn back to see if the men were impressed or annoyed; he just sat in the corner and stared at the floor. Roma took the seat opposite him and kept up a steady stream of conversation as the carriage left the coast and journeyed inland. He regaled Lovino with stories and gossip, discussing changes the boy might not recognize. He spoke of the places he had been, and of Feliciano, who was kind and clever and allegedly becoming a prodigal painter, and an even more beautiful youth than he had been a child.

“Everyone adores Feliciano,” said Roma proudly, but Lovino’s smile was tired.

_So_ , _nothing has changed then_.

It was not a long journey to the capital, but Lovino’s attention was elsewhere and he barely heard a word his grandfather said. He knew that Roma was trying to distract him from his grief, but he couldn’t muster the energy to reply. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to sully the reunion with his family, but he had never been able to fake his feelings. Fortunately, Roma didn’t expect him to. He didn’t expect a reply and he didn’t delve into the boy’s business. He just talked, leaving Lovino to sit in glum silence, which Lovino was grateful for. Roma didn’t even comment when Lovino leant back into the cushioned seat and closed his eyes, not wanting to hear or see. He closed his eyes like a child and wished the world away, squeezing Antonio’s cross in a fist against his heart.

By the time they reached the Vargas villa, he had fallen asleep and Roma had to gently shake him awake. He woke feeling tired and disoriented, and he wiped a stray tear off of his cheek. There was a faint imprint of the cross on his palm, but it faded quickly when he let it go.

The villa looked exactly as it had three years ago: a shameless display of exorbitant wealth. The only thing that had changed was the boy standing in the courtyard, waiting impatiently.

"Lovino!"

" _Ciao_ , Feli— _oof_!"

Feliciano crashed into Lovino, nearly knocking him off his feet. Lovino stumbled and stepped back to keep his balance, then hugged his little brother in return. Feliciano's slender arms coiled around Lovino unabashedly and squeezed him tightly, as if Lovino hadn't run away without warning; as if he hadn't caused his family grief and worry; as if he hadn't broken his brother's heart. When Feliciano finally relaxed his hold and pulled back to properly look at his brother, Lovino saw no sadness or anger or resentment in the honey-gold eyes. Only relief. And joy. And love. There was so much love in Feliciano, just as there always had been.

"Feli," he said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “My God, look at you, you’re—”

Stunning.

Thirteen-year-old Feliciano was a truly beautiful, beguiling boy. Lovino had never seen anything so _pretty_.

“—you’re taller than you were the last time I saw you,” he smiled. “I… I really missed you,” he said honestly.

He didn’t realize how true the words were until he spoke them aloud.

“Oh, Lovi. Brother.”

Feliciano’s eyes overflowed with tears that sparkled down his soft cheeks. He pulled Lovino into a hug that Lovino returned, grateful that something—some _one_ —in this place still felt like home.

* * *

Lovino stood on his balcony. A warm, sweet night breeze swept past him from the gardens below and the gossamer drapes swayed gently around him, sweeping the polished floor, but Lovino felt cold. His apartment in the villa—sitting room, bedchamber, and boudoir—was large and richly decorated with expensive, imported furnishings, massive oil paintings, and a canopied bed. The plastered walls and ceiling were clean, and a chandelier hung from the medallion at the centre. It was comfortable and familiar, but it wasn’t being away from it that had made Lovino feel homesick. It was being back.

"Lovi?" said Feliciano softly.

Roma had ordered a feast in honour of Lovino’s return, but Lovino had slipped away from the festivities as soon as he could. He had thought that no one would notice—his family loved any excuse to party—and no one had, except for Feliciano.

“You’re not okay, are you?” he asked softly.

Lovino turned to look at Feliciano and saw the sympathy on his face, the love and trust and hurt in his eyes. He looked at Feliciano and saw someone he didn’t have to be brave for, so he wasn’t.

“No,” he said simply. “I’m not.

“ _I’m not okay_ ,” he admitted as Feliciano crossed the room. The moment his brothers arms were around him, his strength failed and he trembled and collapsed. Feliciano went down with him, and they sat together on the floor and Lovino held his brother and sobbed.

“ _It hurts_ , _Feli. It hurts so fucking much_.”

“I’m sorry, Lovi,” said Feliciano sadly, sharing in his brother’s grief. He squeezed Lovino tight and rubbed his back, because it was all he could do. “I wish there was something I could do. I just… I’m so, so sorry.”

But Lovino barely heard him, because his thoughts, his broken heart, was screaming: _Antonio_.

* * *

It took a month, but finally Lovino could get through a full day without lashing-out or bursting into unprovoked tears. He knew that it made everyone feel uncomfortable, but he didn't care. He wished they would just leave him alone, but, from the moment he left his bedchamber in the morning, he was constantly hounded by people. It was ironic, really, since all he had wanted on _El Escape_ was attention. Now, he just wanted solitude and peace.

“Time is the great healer,” Roma promised, when three months had passed. “It will heal all wounds, Lovino, especially broken hearts.”

“Fuck time,” Lovino had snapped, viciously wiping his eyes and nose. “There’s got to be something you can give me—some medicine or drug. Please, Roma. _Please_ , _I don’t want to feel this anymore_.”

Sadly, Roma shook his head.

Lovino hated the attention his return received, and, at first, made no attempt to hide it. But he soon realized how much his behaviour was hurting the people around him, his grandfather and brother, and so he resolved to try. Slowly—and badly, at first—he grudgingly began to try to reintegrate himself into society. He talked to people, and his appetite returned. He danced at parties, and laughed at jokes, and sometimes he sang duets with Feliciano for guests. It all seemed to relieve the family, especially Roma, who had begun to worry for Lovino’s health. _It’s like he’s a maiden with a broken heart_ , they said, confused. _Wasn’t he just with Antonio_? Lovino tried to resume his formal lessons, but it proved useless. He couldn’t sit for lectures, nor was he interested in copying and memorization. Instead, he would practice his swordplay every afternoon in the garden. It impressed some and bewildered others, but after Lovino had yelled at the first person who asked about it, no one else did.

For Lovino’s sixteenth birthday, Roma threw an extravagant party, which required Lovino to be bathed and perfumed, then pushed and pulled, buckled and tied into layers of ribbons and damask silk, heavy fabrics, jewels, and plumed feathers. It made him feel like a doll, like Feliciano, who was so used to being dressed and ordered around by others that he did it habitually. Lovino, however, felt uncomfortable, trapped in his own clothes, which constricted his movements. (He could barely _walk_ in the shoes, let alone _run_.)

Descending the stairs, Lovino stumbled on his heels and crashed into Feliciano, sending them both flailing and shrieking into the arms of the guards at the bottom. Then, at supper, he had accidentally dragged his sleeve through his dining partner’s soup, and then knocked over a decanter of wine, soaking the guests sitting opposite him.

 _Oh_ , _fuck_ , he panicked, mortified and fearing retribution. If he were still aboard _El Escape_ , Antonio and the crew would have laughed uproariously, applauding Lovino until he, too, was laughing, while everyone ignored Miguel, who would try and fail to reprimand the boy. But this was not _El Escape_ and no one said anything. Lovino Vargas was not only a lord here, but the guest of honour, and so whatever anger the guests felt they hid behind polite apologies and reassurances. And his family was even worse, pretending that nothing had happened for the sake of keeping Lovino calm. The last thing they wanted was for the young, emotionally unstable heir to have a fit in front of guests.

Lovino could see it on their faces: _No one do or say anything_ , _because Lovino is delicate. Don’t acknowledge it_ , _or he might make a scene_.

“I’m not fragile!” he later complained to Feliciano in the privacy of his bedchamber. “I lived on a pirate ship for three years! I’ve seen men get killed! I’m not a helpless, pampered fucking doll!

“Sorry,” he added, noting Feliciano’s wide-eyed innocence.

 _Feli is what they expect me to be_ , he thought ruefully. _It’s no wonder they’re all so surprised and uncertain. They don’t know what to do with me_.

And yet, they continued to seek Lovino’s attention. Guests and business partners sought him out to pay him compliments, and they always brought expensive and rare gifts, trying to gain favour with the family’s heir. Lovino had refused more invitations within the first month of him being home than he had his entire life. Mostly, he tried to ignore the attention, uninterested in any of them, their business, or their daughters, and—mostly—he was allowed to, due to his _emotional instability_. However, there was one taboo topic-of-conversation that never failed to set him off, and that was, of course, Antonio and _El Escape_. The family learnt fast not to reference Lovino’s three-year leave, but guests did not, and many offered their ill-advised condolences that he had been _kidnapped_ and _suffered_ for so long with that _dangerous criminal_ , Antonio Carriedo.

“Of course, it’s not your fault, Roma,” they said. “Your generosity of spirit in adopting the boy into your own household, he and—there was another boy, wasn’t there? What was his name? Well, it doesn’t matter. You can’t blame yourself for the fate of bastard orphans. Their very existence is a slander of the Faith, something that no amount of kindness nor goodwill can change. It’s all in the blood. And that villainous Spaniard had bad blood from the start. An ungrateful, impure scoundrel who—”

“SHUT UP!” Lovino yelled. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! _You don’t know anything about him so just shut the fuck up_!”

_Damaged_ , they called Lovino. _His mind has been bewitched by that pirate_ , _tricked and lied to. His story is a tragic one_ , _kidnapped and forced to serve ungodly degenerates_. _Did you know they practice blood sacrifice_? _Did you know they eat the hearts of the men they kill_? _Did you know they shun the laws of God and have homoerotic orgies on that devil’s ship of theirs_?

“How very terrible,” they said to him; the ladies always cried. “To suffer such indignities. It must have been so painful.”

“No more than standing here talking to you,” Lovino replied.

Eventually, he was put on house-arrest and not allowed to interact with anyone outside of the family and the household staff. The fact that he was an adult by law did little to convince anyone that he was anything but helpless and in need of rehabilitation. Guards were assigned to shadow him wherever he went, whenever he did. He tried to ignore it, but he disliked feeling trapped in his own house, even if he had no desire to leave his apartments most days. Roma had promised that time would heal him, but it seemed to be doing the opposite, and his homesickness for _El Escape_ grew stronger day-by-day until it was a constant, dull throb.

_This isn’t where I belong_ , he knew.

And the only person who remained kind to him through it all was, of course, his little brother.

“Please try, Lovi. You’ve got to _try_ ,” Feliciano begged.

_I did try_ , Lovino thought, depressed. _I tried and I failed. I failed at trying to move on_.

Two years had passed since his return to Rome, but his heart felt the loss as if it had happened yesterday. He was about to tell Feliciano as much, but stopped when he saw the sadness in his brother’s eyes.

“Please,” he said softly, taking Lovino’s hand in both of his, “I don’t want to lose you, Lovi. I don’t want to be alone again.”

That’s when Lovino finally recognized what was in Feliciano’s eyes, the glimpse of something that was always visible behind the joy and laughter, the kindness and compassion. It was loneliness. Feliciano was lonely. And he had been for years.

_I left him_. _Francis and Antonio left him. Our parents are dead and Roma is gone more often than not. He has family_ , _but no friends. No one to talk to. No one to trust_. _He’s always been here_ , _never left_ , _surrounded by people but always alone_.

_There’s no sadder word than loneliness_ , he knew and felt terrible. For his brother, for himself. For Antonio, wherever he was.

“I’m sorry, Feli. I’m sorry I left—”

“No, you’re not.” Feliciano lifted his head—his soft amber eyes looked like honey in the candlelight—and he offered a smile. It was sad, but kind. And honest, always honest. That smile was the reason why everyone loved him. The reason why someday someone would love him so completely that they would give the world for Feliciano’s smile.

“You’re not sorry, because you want to be with Antonio,” he said, squeezing Lovino’s hands. “You want to be with him, because you’re in love with him.”

Lovino stared in surprise for a moment, then simply signed in defeat. His twelve-year-old self would have denied his feelings, but his sixteen(almost seventeen)-year-old self did not.

“Yes,” he said, reaching up to clutch the cross around his neck. “I’m in love with him.”

* * *

**17 MARCH 1740**

_Buon compleanno_ , _Lovi_!” Feliciano wished him happily. He kissed Lovino’s cheeks, then thrust a ribbon-tied basket into his arms. It was filled with perfectly ripe, red tomatoes. Feliciano giggled at the bemused look on Lovino’s face.

“ _Grazie_ ,” said Lovino, accepting the gift with a smile and a roll of his eyes.

In truth, it was the most thoughtful gift that he had received. It was the only gift he had gotten from someone who actually knew him. Others gave him jewels and accessories and expensive fabrics, which he was forced to accept with a tight-lipped smile while the gift-givers imagined him dressed-up like a doll. And he was thereafter, trussed up in all of it and paraded from event to event beneath an unseasonably warm sun.

Roma had wanted to be there for Lovino’s seventeenth birthday, but bad weather in the north had kept him away. It did not prevent him from sending a gift, however, which turned out to be a sheath for his epée, embroidered with the Vargas family crest. It accompanied a letter, which simply said:

_Do not ever forget who you are. And whom you want to be._

Lovino folded the letter carefully and stuck it into his pocket for safe-keeping. _I guess the old man knows me better than I thought_ , he smiled, though he couldn’t deny the feeling that Roma’s words sounded more like parting words than a birthday wish.

He wore the sheathed epée on his belt for the rest of the day and was pleased by the compliments that it, and not he, received. All things considered, the celebrations were mild, the family finally understanding his disinclination to parties, and Lovino actually found himself enjoying the day—constrictive clothes notwithstanding. By the time he and Feliciano returned to his apartment that night, they were both cheerfully lightheaded and giggling from too much wine. It was there that Lovino saw the unopened parcel on his bed.

“Ooh, another present!” Feliciano clapped excitedly. “I wonder why it wasn’t delivered before? It’s awful late to be receiving parcels. Oh! Maybe it’s from a secret admirer!” he teased. “Open it! Open it!”

Feliciano’s enthusiasm was catching and Lovino tore eagerly into the parcel, tugging at the twine that held the wrapping together. He was smiling, joking with his brother, feeling lighthearted and bubbly—

Then he stopped.

“Lovi? What is it? Let me see—Oh! It’s so pretty,” said Feliciano, removing the single, delicate blood-red rose from the box. “It _must_ be from an admirer, it’s such a romantic gift!”

Lovino nodded mutely, then he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the sob that clawed up his throat.

“Lovi?” Feliciano sounded concerned now. “Do you know who it’s from?”

Again, Lovino nodded but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He was back in a rose garden in Barcelona, fifteen-years-old and kissing the man he loved.

“It’s from him, isn’t it?” said Feliciano gently. “Are you okay?”

Lovino took the rose and kissed the smooth red petals. “No,” he said simply. “I’m not.”

* * *

I think you need to leave.”

Lovino looked at his brother, confused.

“You’re not happy here, Lovi. And you’re never going to be happy again without Antonio, so you need to leave. You need to go find him, because that’s where you belong.”

“I don’t,” Lovino argued, feeling melancholy. “Toni made that clear when he sent me away.”

“He only sent you away because he’s scared, Lovi, scared of losing _you_. Because he loves you, too, I’m sure of it.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It _does_!” Feliciano insisted, standing to prove his point and sending playing cards fluttering to the floor. Lovino stared up at him, surprised by the outburst. “Love _does_ matter, and so does happiness. You can’t spend the rest of your life regretting what could have been.”

“Feli,” said Lovino, standing up as well, “what kind of world are you living in that Toni and I can be together? I’m a lord and he’s a pirate, and, oh yeah, we’re both men. Did you forget that little detail? It’s not like I can just stroll down the street with him, hand-in-hand. It’s not like we could actually be together anywhere.”

“Not even on _El Escape_?”

Lovino blinked. “What?”

“ _El Escape_ , Antonio’s ship. His whole crew. You’re going to tell me they don’t know,” Feliciano challenged. He crossed his arms. “Don’t they love you both?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Would that change if you and Antonio were lovers?”

Lovino blushed. He thought about it for a moment, then answered honestly. “No, I don’t think it would. But that’s different, Feli!” he argued, again. “ _El Escape_ isn’t a regular ship, and the crew aren’t normal people. They’re—”

“Your family,” Feliciano supplied. “They’re your home.

“ _It’s where you belong_ ,” he repeated more fervently. “It’s why you need to leave.”

“And what about you?” Lovino asked, deflating a little as he sat back down. “I can’t just leave you again.”

“Yes, you can,” said Feliciano, sitting down beside him. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I’m not as fragile as everyone thinks.” He winked. “I’ll find my own home someday, and then you can be just as happy for me as I am for you, okay?”

Lovino was thoughtfully silent for a long time. Everything Feliciano said was everything Lovino wanted, he and Antonio together on _El Escape_ with their strange, haphazard family of misfits. It sounded wonderful, but there was still one thing that really scared him.

“He sent me away,” he said quietly. “He told me he loved me and then he sent me away.”

If love and happiness really were the most important things, then why had Antonio sacrificed both?

“Because he’s scared,” Feliciano repeated, gentler this time. “And if you don’t believe _me_ , then maybe you’ll believe _this_.”

Dramatically, Feliciano revealed the letter he had hidden in his pocket and presented it to Lovino like the last piece of a severed treasure map.

Lovino was unimpressed. “A letter?”

“The letter Antonio wrote to Roma before he decided to send you away.”

Lovino snatched it from Feliciano’s hand, his eyes going wide with surprise and remembered anger.

“I found it in Roma’s study,” said Feliciano, standing again. He walked toward the bedchamber door. “Read it, and if you still don’t believe that he’s desperately in love with you, too, then I’ll never bother you about it again. I’ll leave you to your misery and self-destruction, I promise.”

That said, Feliciano left and closed the door behind him.

Lovino stared down at the crumpled letter clutched in his fist, feeling suddenly intimidated by it. This was the letter Antonio had hidden from him on _El Escape_ ; the letter he had kept locked-up until he could send it to Rome; the letter that had sealed Lovino’s fate; the letter he had never been meant to read. Reading it now felt like a betrayal of Antonio’s trust, and he knew how angry and embarrassed he, himself, would be if their roles were reversed, but he had spent too long already not knowing, too long wondering and worrying and regretting. He needed to know what Feliciano knew—or, thought he knew. He needed to know if his brother was right.

Slowly, Lovino unfolded it.

He immediately recognized the handwriting and his heart skipped a beat.

 _Toni_.

He closed his eyes and held it for a moment, afraid to read, knowing that the contents of this letter had the power to destroy him.

 _This is how Toni really feels about me. Do I really want to know_?

If he didn’t know, then it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to accept whatever the truth might be. He could go on living the way he was, not getting any better, but not getting worse. He could go on loving Antonio and pretending that Antonio loved him, too. Or, didn’t. He could still hope. If he didn’t read the letter then the truth didn’t matter.

Except that it did.

He read.

* * *

 _That bastard_!” Lovino yelled.

From the other side of the door, Feliciano smiled.

Lovino would be okay now. Somehow, it would all be okay.

“What now?” Lovino asked when he finally emerged. He clutched Antonio’s letter in one hand and his golden cross in the other.

Feliciano pushed himself upright and straightened his clothes. “We find him, of course.”

“We find him,” said Lovino dubiously. “That’s your plan? We can’t even leave this house, but we’re going to find a single man on a single ship that could be anywhere in the Mediterranean?”

Feliciano’s smile curled deviously. “Oh, Lovi,” he pouted, gently mocking, “have you really forgotten who you are? You’re a Vargas, brother. And so am I. And the Vargas family _always_ gets what they want.”

* * *

**ONE MONTH LATER**

_Lovi_! _Lovi_!”

Feliciano dashed into the garden, where Lovino was practicing his swordplay. He tripped on the path and no less than six guards moved on instinct to catch him, but the boy rescued himself—albeit, inelegantly. He raced to his brother and stopped, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath.

“Here, sit down,” said Lovino worriedly. Feliciano had always had a weak constitution and too much physical exertion had caused accidents in the past. “Are you okay? You’re pale—”

“No, no, no, I’m fine,” Feliciano gasped, brushing Lovino off. “Listen, I—” _cough cough_ “—I have news of—”

“Wine!” Lovino snapped at one guard, while another helped Feliciano to a bench. A flagon was brought and Feliciano took it habitually, taking small sips until his breathing relaxed. He was still pale and sweating, but insisted on giving Lovino his report.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and now he looked grieved. His amber eyes were big and luminous with emotion. “Lovi, I’m so, so sorry.”

He pressed a letter into Lovino’s hand.

Lovino left Feliciano with the hovering guards and crossed to the other side of the garden to read it, ignoring the curious looks he got. It had arrived with a Neapolitan nobleman that afternoon, a man whom Lovino hadn’t paid any attention to and whom he had only seen at a distance from the balcony. There were always visitors in the Vargas house; why should he pay special attention to this one? But Feliciano had. And Feliciano had been given the letter that Lovino was now holding.

Except, it wasn’t a letter.

It was an Italian arrest report for Antonio Fernández Carriedo. It listed his crimes. It sentenced him to death. And it was dated a week ago.

Lovino’s legs went weak and he stumbled back. He crashed into a statue and knocked a brass pitcher from its hand, which clattered to the ground. A moment later, he followed it, sinking to his knees. He felt Feliciano’s hand on his shoulder, heard his voice—heard many people’s voices calling him—but he didn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His body was frozen, staring at the second date scribbled hastily and carelessly on the bottom of the report, as if it didn’t matter.

“ _When is it_?” Feliciano whispered, so close Lovino felt his breath.

_When is Antonio’s execution_?

Lovino closed his eyes.

“The day after tomorrow.”


	9. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update is late. I've honestly been trying to edit it for two weeks now, but every time I started to, life decided to interrupt. =_= Thank-you very much for your wonderful patience and interest. It's much appreciated. :)

**CARRIEDO**

Antonio squeezed his eyes shut, but they burned. Stinging pickle juice got into his eye sockets, his nose, and his mouth, tasting of rancid vinegar. It stung the cuts and bruises on his skin, making his swollen face throb, worse now than the blunter pain of each wound’s initial infliction. The jailer held him up by the hair, letting him gasp and sputter and cough, but only for a second before his head was plunged back into the pickle barrel. This time, Antonio swallowed a mouthful of juice, turning his stomach. He was so thirsty that he almost welcomed the relief, but knew the salt would only dehydrate him more if he drank. He was already dizzy and nauseous, pushed down onto his hands-and-knees on a filthy flagstone floor. The putrid stench of the chamber—urine and blood—was worse than the rank pickle juice, and the back-and-forth motion of being repeatedly dunked was making him faint.

How long had it been already, minutes? Hours? Days since he had been brought to this underground cell. He didn’t think he could take much more.

“Stop,” said the warden.

Antonio doubled-over when the jailer released him, gasping and gagging as pickle juice ran down his face. He peeled his eyes open and winced from the pain, but also at seeing his blurry reflection in the jailer's polished breastplate: weeping, bloodshot eyes, swollen, sallow skin, cracked and bleeding lips. He looked away.

“Bring the bastard here,” the warden ordered.

Antonio was yanked to his feet and half-dragged to a long wooden table, which he was made to bend over. It was sturdy and solid and it took his limp weight, its edges rubbed smooth by decades of service. He collapsed onto the surface of it, ignoring the stains ingrained in the wood. He was so tired; almost too tired to be afraid, now. When the jailer's gloved hands pressed down upon his shoulders, restraining him, Antonio almost laughed at the needlessness of it. He barely had strength left to stand let alone struggle.

A moment later, the warden’s face came into view. He had heavy jowls and a very black moustache. Antonio wondered if he dyed it, because his receding hair was almost entirely grey. The warden lit a cigarette and exhaled a mouthful of smoke into Antonio’s face.

“Let’s try this again,” he said. “Where is _El Escape_?”

Antonio stared at him, beaten and pickled.

“I know you know where that fucking ship is. I know, because it’s _your_ fucking ship, _Captain Carriedo_ ,” he spat. “Tell me where it is and I’ll spare her degenerate crew. They’ll go to the fields instead of the noose and you will go to your maker knowing that you did _one_ good thing at least, that at the end you repented your sins and chose to aid the cause of law and justice. Tell me where _El Escape_ is and all of this pain will end.

“ _Tell me_!” he snapped when Antonio stayed silent.

Angrily, he put out his cigarette on Antonio’s cheek, then grinned in satisfaction when Antonio couldn’t hold back a whine.

“Hold him,” said the warden, and the jailer shifted to expose Antonio’s back.

Antonio knew what was coming and tried not to be afraid, but it was a wasted effort. As soon as he saw the whip in the warden’s hand, his heart began to race.

“Where,” he said deliberately, as if Antonio was a stubborn schoolboy, “is that _fucking_ ship?”

Antonio shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. His shoulders arched and insides quaked, but he would not talk. They could torture him, torment him, kill him, but he _would not talk_. The crew of _El Escape_ was his family and he would protect them with his life.

He heard a splash as the whip was dunked into the pickle barrel, coating it with stinging juice.

He heard the slow, deliberate steps of the warden as he positioned himself behind Antonio.

He felt the whispered breeze across his bare back just before the whip lashed down.

* * *

**VARGAS**

_Wait_!”

Lovino’s soft-soled shoes slid across the polished floor as he ran down the corridor, calling to the Neapolitan messenger. In the covered gallery, the man stopped and looked back at him, and Lovino nearly cried-out in surprise.

“ _Miguel_!” he gasped, grabbing the first-mate’s arms; partially to steady himself, and partially to prove that it wasn’t a dream. “You—you—” he faltered, overcome with emotion.

“You look ridiculous,” he said at last.

The Spanish pirate was wearing a knee-long velvet coat trimmed in gold tassels, with a silk shirt and cravat, breeches that hugged his muscular legs, knee-high stockings, and impractical buckled shoes. On his head sat a cocked cap with elaborate plumage, and on his face was a scowl. The cut of the gentleman’s ensemble was exquisite, as was the embroidery, but Miguel was no gentleman and his sweating, shifting posture and obvious discomfort told Lovino as much. He laughed outright, a little hysterical, and Miguel let him.

“Alright, alright—!” said the pirate after a moment, shaking off Lovino’s hands. “I assume you know why I’m here?”

The seriousness of his tone drew Lovino back and he felt the fear take hold of him again.

“ _Toni_ ,” he said.

Miguel nodded. His dark eyes glanced over Lovino’s head and then cut to the side. “Where is safe to talk?” he asked.

Lovino quickly led Miguel to his apartment, grateful that the guards were still in the garden, distracted by Feliciano’s delicate health. A doctor had been called for when Lovino had dashed out, and he hoped that his brother would be okay.

“Where is _El Escape_?” he asked, closing the bedchamber door and locking it.

“Safe,” said Miguel. “She’s anchored five miles east of here—waiting for _you_.”

“ _Me_?”

Miguel smiled a little, teasing. “Didn’t think we’d try to rescue the captain without you, did you, brat?”

Lovino swallowed, willing himself not to cry. He felt touched by the sentiment, that he was still considered a member of the crew. A member of the family.

“Besides,” Miguel added, ruining it, “they’re holding Captain Carriedo at the fort, which is why we need you.”

Lovino frowned. Then Miguel’s words hit him. “The _fort_? You’re planning to attack _the fort_? You’re mad!”

Miguel shrugged.

“Miguel,” Lovino said, imbuing his tone with severity and fear, “they’ll kill you, all of you. They’ll fire on _El Escape_ and sink her before you can even get close.”

“Yes, which is why we need you,” he repeated. “We need your sigil and your seal. _We_ can’t walk into the fort, but _you_ can, little lord.”

“I can’t,” Lovino denied. “I’m not even allowed out of the house, because no one trusts me. They think Toni s _educed_ me,” he scoffed, then immediately regretted his word-choice when Miguel raised an eyebrow. “They think I’m disturbed,” Lovino said plainly. “The second I show up at the fort they’ll know that something is very wrong. My being there won’t get you inside, Miguel, it’ll get you arrested,” he said, disheartened.

“Couldn’t you buy Toni’s freedom?” he suggested instead. “I could give you the money—”

“No,” Miguel shook his head. “He’s too high-profile a criminal, too infamous. It’s a symbol the navy wants to destroy, not a man.”

Lovino clenched his fists in frustration. “Then what?” he snapped, beginning to pace. He kicked off his shoes and tread upon a long taffeta cape, billowing with ruffles. “Maybe we can parley with the warden directly?”

Miguel grunted. “Spoken like true nobility,” he dismissed.

“Well, _what then_?” Lovino whirled so fast, he knocked a jewellery box from the vanity. Gold hairpins, pearls, and jewelled broaches spilled onto the floor, landing in a pile of discarded evening wear and heeled shoes decorated with puffy ribbons.

Miguel knelt and lifted a long, shiny string of black pearls.

“Keep it, I don’t care,” Lovino said, misreading the pirate’s interest. He hadn’t felt so useless since he was twelve-years-old and he hated it; hated that the man he loved was facing execution in less than forty-eight hours and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“There’s nothing I can do,” he said quietly, feeling tears prick his eyes. He turned away from Miguel and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I was powerless then, and I’m powerless now. My title means _nothing_! _I’m_ nothing! Just the weak, useless lordling I’ve always been. I… I’m sorry.

“ _Fuck_ , _I’m so sorry_.”

A heavy, despairing silence engulfed them. Miguel let Lovino cry for a while without interruption, then he, too, sighed.

“I’m sorry, Lovino. I shouldn’t have come here. The captain spent years protecting you, and now I’ve brought you heartache again. My being here puts you in danger—”

“No,” Lovino sniffed, turning around. He didn’t care that his eyes were red and puffy. “I’m glad you did.”

Miguel nodded. He put the black pearls in his pocket and the hat back on his head, then headed for the door.

“What will you do?” Lovino asked him.

Miguel stopped, dropped his outstretched hand. “Go to the fort, do what we can.”

“You’ll die, all of you.”

“Probably,” Miguel acknowledged. “But I’d rather die trying to save a friend then live knowing I didn’t. He’s important to us. So are you, Lovino. But I think you’re the most important to each other.”

“Please don’t,” Lovino begged, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Don’t say that when there’s nothing I can do—”

“You _can_.”

“I’m not strong—”

“You _are_ ,” Miguel insisted firmly. “You can’t lie to me, brat. I sailed with you for years, I know how strong you are, and I know how smart you are. I know that you and Antonio are exactly the same, both of you thinking you have no value in the world. Well, fuck the world. You have value to each other, and to us, your _family_. I’m proud to call you my brother, Lovino Vargas, and I always have been. We’ve only ever wanted your happiness, you and the man you love—”

Lovino’s eyes widened, but Miguel didn’t even pause.

“—the man who loves you more than anything. He went mad after you left,” he confessed, his tone sobering sadly. “He stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Then he got himself caught by the navy, and I honestly don’t know if it was intentional or not.”

“He wouldn’t…” Lovino denied, but Miguel’s look was firm.

“He would for _you_.

“Remember that, okay? When we’re gone,” said Miguel softly. “Don’t ever forget that he loved you.”

Lovino had nothing to say to that, so he said nothing at all. A calm, empty acceptance came over him and in that moment he wanted to die.

Then someone banged on the bedchamber door.

* * *

Lovi!” called Feliciano urgently. “Lovi, open the door! Please let me in!”

Lovino merely stared, so Miguel unlocked and opened the door. Feliciano dashed inside, slipped on the mess of clothes, and fell to his knees, sending a silk headscarf and a feathered fan flying.

“Feli!” Lovino snapped to attention and hurried to his brother.

“I’m okay,” said Feliciano, dusting himself off. “Hello,” he smiled at Miguel. “You’re on of Lovi’s crewmates, aren’t you? I’m Feliciano Vargas, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Lovino waited for Miguel’s scorn, ready to scold him for insulting his brother, but it didn’t come. There were no jests or looks of disdain for Feliciano as he dipped into a bow that was more a curtsey. Miguel didn’t ignore him, or ridicule him, like Lovino expected. Instead, the ruthless pirate returned the bow politely and rose again with an enchanted smile on his face.

“Miguel García Martinez, first-mate of the pirate ship, _El Escape_ , at your service, my lord.”

Feliciano giggled a little. Lovino rolled his eyes.

_Are you fucking serious_? he thought, but couldn’t be upset. In fact, it made him happy, because he knew that if even grumpy old Miguel could be affected by Feliciano’s charm, there was no one in the world who wouldn’t be.

The atmosphere had brightened with Feliciano’s entrance, but even his sunny energy seemed to deplete as Lovino explained the situation to him.

“But there must be _something_ we can do?” he insisted, twisting a silver necklace around his hands nervously.

“There’s not,” said Lovino, tossing a hat across the room.

“It’s a dangerous situation,” Miguel agreed, pocketing an emerald ring.

“Oh, if only you _weren’t_ Lovino Vargas,” Feliciano sighed in defeat, “then you could walk right into the fort and demand to see Antonio.”

Lovino scoffed. “The only person allowed to see a prisoner before his execution is his—”

He stopped midsentence.

“What?” said Miguel.

Lovino stood and glanced from left-to-right, suddenly seeing the mess of his bedchamber for what it was. He saw all of the birthday gifts he had received, all of the gifts from admirers and sycophants, the gifts he hadn’t wanted. He saw shirts, coats, cloaks and scarves; hats and veils; ballooning silk breeches, embroidered stockings, and heeled leather shoes; hairpins and gemstones; and a box of cosmetics. He thought of his aunts’ elaborate wardrobes, and his girl cousins’. He thought of the stable and the gilded carriage. He thought of how easy it would be to become someone else, because everything he needed was here at his lordly fingertips.

“Lovi—?” Feliciano asked cautiously. “Are you okay? You’re not blinking.”

Lovino’s eyes flashed, the fire reignited as a smile curled his lips. “I have an idea,” he said.

* * *

_O-oh—_! _Nn_ , _mm—ah_!”

Lovino squeezed the footboard and arched his back, crying-out in pain. “ _Miguel_ , _I-I—can’t_ — _FUCK_!”

“Would you stop whining?” Miguel grumbled. “It can’t be _that_ bad,” he said, tugging the corset laces tighter. The stiff bones dug into Lovino’s ribs, constricting his stomach and forcing his waist into a painful hourglass shape. “Hold your breath,” Miguel advised, pushing his knee against the boy’s back for leverage. “It’s got to be tight, or your skinny, shapeless ass won’t look like you’ve got a woman’s curves.”

“Hey, I’ve got an— _ugh_!—idea. Let’s put y-y-you into a— _ah_!—corset and see how you f-f-fucking like it! _Ah_!”

“Do you think they’ll really believe that you’re Toni’s wife?” Feliciano asked from his place at the vanity. He was applying rouge to his cheeks with the expert precision of a painter.

“They had better,” Miguel replied because Lovino—holding his breath—couldn’t. “Because if they don’t, the captain will kill me for putting you both in danger.”

“I still don’t think you should come, Feli,” said Lovino, when Miguel crawled off of him. He stood tentatively, testing his shallow breaths.

“Of course I have to come!” Feliciano burst, turning to frown at Lovino. He was already corseted and dressed in a cream-coloured taffeta dress, his auburn hair curled and veiled with gold pins. “What kind of noblewoman let’s her sister visit a prison alone?”

“A scandalized one,” quipped Miguel, earning him a swift kick.

“Besides,” Feliciano continued, turning back to the mirror, “you might need a distraction once you’re inside. I can provide one if anything goes wrong.”

Lovino really, _really_ hoped nothing would go wrong. His plan was a risky gamble already.

Feliciano fastened half-a-dozen strings of white pearls around his slim neck, then motioned Lovino forward. Lovino stepped into a blood-red dress and let Feliciano fasten the clasps, fix the cuffs, adjust the bodice. Then Lovino sat at the vanity while his little brother pinned his hair and painted his face.

“You are suspiciously good at this,” he teased as Feliciano curled his long eyelashes.

“I have no idea what you mean,” said Feliciano serenely. Then he winked.

They waited until nightfall to make their daring escape, all three of them dressed in evening finery. They had to leave from the balcony to avoid the guards, which was not an descent in heels and a heavy, billowing dress. Lovino made Miguel go down first so that he could catch Feliciano, who inevitably fell halfway down. Then they hurried to the stables, where Miguel made quick work of the grooms. “ _Don’t hurt them_!” Feliciano pleaded, and took the liberty of blanketing each boy’s unconscious body before climbing into the carriage. Lovino offered to help with the horses, but Miguel ordered him inside. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty dress,” he teased. Lovino replied with a rude hand gesture before joining Feliciano. The Vargas sigil on the carriage ensured them safe passage to the coast, because no one dared stop them for questioning. If a Vargas was leaving the villa after dark, then surely it was very important business and shouldn’t be disturbed. Miguel drove the horses hard once they left the village and soon they had arrived at the inlet, where _El Escape_ waited.

The crew sent a longboat to collect them at Miguel’s signal, and Lovino had to suffer, first the utter confusion of Jorge and Leonardo, and then their raucous laughter.

“It’s a good look,” Jorge snorted, reaching to pat Lovino’s head.

“Don’t!” Lovino snapped, slapping his hand away. Then he added primly: “You’ll ruin by hair.”

“Aye, aye, milord.” Jorge laughed and elbowed Leonardo, who hadn’t yet taken his eyes off pretty Feliciano.

The crew hollered and laughed and wolf-howled when Lovino climbed on-deck. “That’s right,” he sighed, turning in a slow, sarcastic circle, “get it out of your systems now.” A few of them pulled him into hugs, while others bashfully introduced themselves to Feliciano, but soon the whole ship fell silent, awaiting orders.

Awaiting _Lovino’s_ orders.

He repeated the plan, loud and clear, making sure that everyone knew what he was expected to do. Then, just before midnight, they lowered the pirate flag, covered the ship’s name, and _El Escape_ set sail, possibly for the very last time.

Two hours later, they approached the fort.

“That flag won’t fool them for long,” Miguel said, referring to the Italian flag they had hoisted in disguise.

Lovino nodded. “Jorge,” he called to the former-navy officer, “give us an hour. If we’re not back with Toni by then, you leave. No matter what, you get as far away from here as possible and don’t ever come back. Take care of _El Escape_ and her crew.”

“I will,” Jorge promised, “but I hope I don’t have to.”

“Me, too,” Lovino agreed, then added: “You’re a shit sailing master.”

Jorge chuckled.

As the longboat descended with the small landing-party aboard, Feliciano took Lovino’s hand and squeezed. Lovino was grateful for the support, but hoped his doubts didn’t show on his face. He hoped it was just Feliciano who could see how nervous—how terrified—he was, his heart racing as they neared the gates. A guard called out to Miguel, who answered in a Neapolitan accent. He handed the man a letter, which he read, then consulted his partner. Lovino waited for them to make a decision, growing more worried and more impatient with each wasted minute. Finally, the guards let them disembark.

“Thank-you,” Lovino said tartly, taking the guard’s offered hand. Feliciano poked him in the back and Lovino remembered his role. He sniffed and dabbed his face with a handkerchief, pretending to wipe away tears, though he didn’t have to try all that hard to appear distressed. After two years of separation, it didn’t take much effort for Lovino to cry on-cue.

“Please, sirs,” said Miguel imploringly. “My lady wishes to see her husband one last time before he dies. She wishes to pray with him and to bid him goodbye.”

Feliciano put his arm around Lovino and pouted, batting his eyelashes while Lovino bowed his head, trying to look like a pious, long-suffering wife.

“The prisoner’s name?” asked a guard.

“Antonio Fernández Carriedo.”

The guards exchanged a look of surprise before one hurried off to put in the request. Then they waited. And waited. And waited.

By the time the guard returned with permission from the warden, Lovino was angry, annoyed, and becoming very afraid that they wouldn’t make it in time.

“You’re not going to search us, are you?” asked Feliciano shyly. “Please sir, we don’t have anything to hide.”

Lovino watched Feliciano press a delicate hand to his imaginary bosom, innocently inching down the fabric in feigned accident. Then he hooked a finger deliberately around the gold cross hanging from the strings of pearls at his throat. “Please,” he begged softly, puckering his pomegranate lips. “You wouldn’t compromise a Godly woman’s virtue, would you?”

One of the guards swallowed, red to his ears. The other said: “N-n-no— _ahem_ , no, of course not, my lady.”

“I’ll escort you now, my lady,” said the messenger-guard, politely extending his hand toward the entrance. “I’m afraid we can only permit one of you. Signora Carriedo, if you please.”

Lovino was led down a long, windowless corridor that twisted downhill. His shoes clapped on the stone steps as he descended, taking the guard's hand to maintain his guise and his balance. The steep stairs were wet and warped, and the further down they ventured, the muskier the air became, forcing Lovino to press the handkerchief to his nose. The cells were horrible; he felt angry just thinking of Antonio being locked inside one. When a pitiful moan bounced off the walls, the boy jumped, inviting the guard to slam an armoured boot into the bars to quiet the inmate. Lovino tightened his hold on the handkerchief. They had almost reached the end of the long corridor when the guard finally stopped.

“Your husband is in there.” He pointed to a dark cell. “I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

Lovino stared at the guard until he finally got the message and stepped back to give the couple the illusion of privacy. Only then did he look into the cell.

It was a small box of damp stone and dirty straw. There was no window, but the guard's torch was enough to dimly illuminate a body lying against the farthest wall. He was curled into a defensive position, protecting himself from the chill, and was utterly still. He was filthy, his naked skin covered in blood and bruises and grime, and he was wearing nothing but soiled breeches. But the worst part, the part that turned Lovino’s stomach and brought tears to his eyes was his back. Antonio’s back was scored with dozens of angry lashes, so many it was impossible to see where one lash ended and another began. Blood oozed from each wound, glistening in the torchlight, and Lovino was guiltily grateful that it veiled the tortured flaps of skin beneath.

Sucking back a sob, he grasped the cell’s bars, and gently called: “Tonio?”

His voice broke. He tried again.

“Tonio,” he said louder. Please, darling, it’s me. Please open your eyes. _Please_.

“Please,” he said to the guard in distress. “He’s injured. He’s _dying_! He needs me, please open the door!”

“I’m sorry, my lady. My orders were to keep the cell locked.”

Lovino clenched the bars tightly, letting a note of anger permeate his tone. " _Tonio_ , _you bastard_! _Wake up_!"

This time, Antonio stirred. Lovino heard him utter a soft moan, then saw him shift and try to rise. His limbs were shaky and sluggish, but, with intense effort, he pushed himself to his elbows and lifted his head. Again, Lovino gasped. Antonio’s handsome face had been brutally beaten. There was sticky blood in his hairline and nose and on his cheeks, as well as an angry burn mark that oozed pus. His eyelids were heavy and barely opened, as if the torch’s dim light hurt. His breathing was laboured and his cracked lips parted in confusion as he looked at Lovino, fooled by the female disguise.

“Tonio,” said Lovino, making eye-contact, “it’s me, _mi amore_.”

Antonio’s eyes widened in realization. A whine escaped him as he forced himself to his feet, staggering as fast as he could. He reached the bars and thrust his arms though them, wrapping Lovino in an awkward embrace.

“ _Lovino_ ,” he whispered in Lovino’s ear. His voice sounded strangled. “ _How_ —?”

“It’s okay.” Lovino pulled Antonio closer, kissing his temple and stroking his greasy hair. “It’s okay, I’m here, Tonio. I’m here now.”

“No, no…” said Antonio, burying his face in the folds of Lovino’s disguise. “I’m dreaming. You can’t be here.”

Lovino’s heart ached. He had thought that two years apart had taught him the meaning of pain, of yearning, but over time the sharpness of that pain had numbed. Now, it was fresh again, like a reopened wound, and it throbbed with a fiery vengeance. He didn’t have to fake sobs for the guard’s benefit, because the tears were already falling.

“You bastard,” he said, gently cupping Antonio’s bloody cheek. “Of course I’m here. Did you really think I’d leave you to die?”

Antonio whimpered. “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought—” He gasped, then coughed. “I thought I would die without seeing you.”

“You’re not going to die,” said Lovino fiercely. “I won’t let you.”

A tear rolled down Antonio’s cheek. “ _Te quiero_ , _cariño_.”

“My lady?” called the guard. He raised the torch, silhouetting the couple in bright yellow light. “Your time is expired. I must escort you back now.”

Lovino clutched Antonio even tighter. The metal bars pressed into his chest, the corset beneath his dress, but he didn’t care. He took Antonio’s face in his hands and pulled him down into a deep, desperate kiss. It was hot and sour. It tasted of salt and metal and blood, but Lovino savoured it. He parted his lips for Antonio’s gritty tongue and moaned into the other man’s mouth. “ _I love you_ ,” he said, kissing him again, and again. “ _I love you so much_ , _Tonio. I always have and I always will_.”

Reluctantly, Lovino pulled away. He held onto Antonio’s hand for as long as possible before the guard urged him away, leaving the Spaniard in darkness once more.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the guard said awkwardly. Lovino didn’t answer. For once, being the distraught lover of a pirate was exactly what he was supposed to be.

He was paraded back to the entrance, where Miguel and Feliciano waited. Except, Feliciano wasn’t standing where Lovino had left him. He wasn’t _standing_ at all, in fact, but sitting on a stool that someone had brought. There were no less than six guards hovering nearby.

“Your sister is feeling faint, my lady,” Miguel explained, standing protectively at Feliciano’s side.

Lovino went to him, thinking it was an act until he saw his brother’s pallor. “Sister?” he asked.

“Oh, I—I’m fine,” Feliciano fanned himself. “These men were kind enough to—to make a fuss, but it’s only a headache. It’ll soon pass.”

Lovino wasn’t so sure. “Do you have smelling-salts?” he asked. “Wine? You must have wine.”

“Roberto has gone to fetch it.”

Lovino nodded. “Sister?” he said again. Feliciano bowed his head, inviting Lovino closer. Lovino put a hand on his forehead, then embraced him. “ _How long can you stall_?” he whispered in his ear.

Feliciano’s breathing was laboured, but his cheeks were flushed with determination. “ _As long as you need_ ,” he replied.

Lovino straightened, putting on his best _entitled noble_ look. “Take me to the warden,” he ordered in a stern tone. “My sister is unwell and I would like him to call a doctor. Sirs,” he threatened, letting his voice quiver, “ please do not add to a poor widow’s heartbreak. If something happens to my sister, I’m afraid I will not be able to contain my grief. My husband, now my sister—I will be utterly inconsolable! I shall cry and cry! Oh, what will my father say when I tell him what my sister succumbed to here?”

“Of course, my lady—of course! Our deepest apologies!” said the senior guard. “Worry not, I will take you to the warden directly. This way, if you please.”

Lovino pressed the handkerchief to his face, pretending to grieve, but as he stepped into the fort, he cast a glance back at Feliciano and smiled.

* * *

**CARRIEDO**

Antonio counted to two-hundred, then spit the lock-picks into his hand.

It was nearly pitch in the cell, but that was fine for lock-picking, which required touch and hearing more than sight. Besides, Antonio’s eyes were too light-sensitive from being so long in the dark. His bruised and bloodied hands were not as deft as usual and trembled as he fit the small, narrow picks into the mechanism, wiping the sweat from his eyes. His body ached and his head throbbed, but he fought to concentrate on the tumblers. He had been ready to give up before and accept his fate, as long as his crew was safe, as long as _Lovino_ was safe, but then Lovino had appeared in front of him and revitalized him.

_I’m dead_ , he had thought, seeing Lovino in the cell. _The lashings killed me and I’m already dead. I must be_ , _because Lovino isn’t here. Lovino_ can’t _be here._

Except, he was. Lovino was standing in the fort, in the prison, holding Antonio and telling him he loved him and wouldn’t let him die.

_Click_.

The lock released and Antonio stumbled into the door. It swung open with a squeal that echoed in the silence and made him flinch. He leant his shoulder against the wall for balance and then set off, half-dragging himself down the corridor while trying to ignore the pain in his back. He felt defenceless with ruined fists and no weapon, though he doubted he could wield a sword with any accuracy even if he had one, and a pistol would provoke immediate alarm. His heart pounded as he climbed the stairwell, knowing there would be nowhere to hide if anyone approached, but his fear was needless in the end, because there seemed to be no guards anywhere.

_Whatever Lovi’s plan is_ , _it’s working_.

Antonio made it to the quadrangle without incident, but had to duck immediately out of sight as two guards appeared, talking loudly. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from hissing in pain as he hid behind a parked wagon. Fortunately, the guards seemed distracted, discussing the two _beautiful ladies_ at the front gate and cursing their own bad-luck.

“A fucking fortnight I’ve been posted at that gate and nothing, not so much as a decrepit old priest for weeks. But tonight, of course, I’m stuck in here patrolling. I’d sell my fucking fillings for a look at those two girls.”

“I heard they’re really beautiful. I heard that one of them _fainted_.”

Antonio stiffened. _Lovino—fainted_?

No. Lovino was a reckless boy, but he was strong. _Two girls_? It took Antonio’s foggy brain much longer than it should have to understand that the second _girl_ could only be Feliciano. _Oh no_ , _Lovi_ , _you didn’t_! Knowing that his precious Lovino had infiltrated the filthy, diseased fort was bad enough, but Feliciano’s health was delicate. Antonio had spent many long, tired nights praying for baby Feliciano while the doctors did what they could. He remembered wiping sweat from the baby’s brow and rocking him back to sleep when he woke from fever-dreams, crying and afraid. _I used to sing to him_ , he thought, suddenly missing his foster-brother like he hadn’t in years. _I wonder what he looks like now_?

“Fuck, I wish I was posted at the gate!” said the guard. “Those bastards get to touch her and comfort her. I love a helpless maiden.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to call them _maidens_ ,” said the other. “One of them—the hysterical one—was fucking the Spanish-rat, remember?”

“Bad taste,” they agreed.

They left with a few grunts of companionable laughter. Antonio clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to bludgeon them both from behind.

Antonio crossed the quadrangle and continued on, forcing himself to move faster. The sooner he reunited with Lovino and Feliciano, the better. The need to protect them fueled him, reigniting his spirit if not his broken body. He had always thought it was his duty to take care of the Italian lordlings, as if protecting them could somehow make up for failing Francis all those years ago. He had always risked himself for them and always would. Except, this time, it wasn’t his choice. This time, it was Lovino risking himself for Antonio, and it both infuriated and terrified Antonio. But it made him proud, too. And grateful. Never, even as a child, had he ever thought anyone would care enough about him to risk themselves for his safety. His parents hadn’t, nor had his foster-family. Since losing Francis all those years ago, he didn’t think he _deserved_ to be saved, especially by someone as wonderful as Lovino. But now—

Antonio didn’t know how or when it had changed, but he did know _why_. It was love, as simple as that. And for the first time in his life, that love was mutual.

* * *

**VARGAS**

Lovino made short work of the guard.

In the dark closeness of the stone corridor, he swiftly removed the epée strapped to his leg and used the hilt to knock the man unconscious. He crumpled like a paper-doll, unprepared for the attack. Lovino dragged his body to an alcove, where he quickly began to undress, glad to be rid of the cumbersome ensemble. Under the dress, he wore breeches and a shirt pressed skin-tight by the corset, which he couldn’t get off by himself no matter how hard he tried. _Fuck it_ , he thought in defeat and left the undergarment on as he continued down the corridor, his epée outstretched. There were only a handful of guards on patrol in this wing of the fort, easily avoided, and Lovino knew that he had his dear little brother to thank for that. Even before Lovino had left him, several more guards had flocked to the entrance in curiosity, summoned by the gossip of a pretty maiden in need of help.

_Just a little longer_ , _Feli. You just have to hold on for a little longer_.

If Lovino’s faith in Antonio was not misplaced, the Spaniard would be making his way through the bowels of the fort right now, making his way toward rescue—if he hadn’t collapsed, that was. Lovino had seen the severity of Antonio’s wounds and couldn’t ignore the very real possibility that he might faint—or _die_ —before he was found. How deep were his injuries? How long ago had they been inflicted? What poisonous vapours had already seeped into his blood? Lovino didn’t know; he only knew he had to get Antonio to safety as soon as possible, and he couldn’t do that if his own head was full of fear.

_I’ll find him_ , he promised, surveying the quadrangle before entering. _I have to find him. I_ —

“ _Toni_!” he gasped.

He saw Antonio leaning against a covered wagon, desperately trying to regain and keep his feet. His skin was pale and his lashes were red with fresh flowing blood. He was breathing hard and his head lolled, only half-conscious as he strained to pull himself up. Lovino ran to him, blocking the Spaniard’s fist when it struck out in defense.

“Tonio, it’s me! It’s okay now, it’s me,” he said, taking Antonio’s hand in his.

“Lovi? Oh, I-I—I’m sorry, Lo—”

His legs buckled and he fell sideways, crashing into the wagon. Lovino caught him and staggered back under the weight, but he held Antonio firm.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, carefully manipulating Antonio’s limbs. He pulled the man’s right arm over his shoulders to redistribute the weight, letting Antonio use him as a brace. Antonio groaned as they started to walk, but walk he did until they came to a gated culvert.

“I need both hands,” said Lovino regretfully. “Can you hold onto me?”

“Yes,” said Antonio, then collapsed as soon as Lovino let go. Lovino flinched, but Antonio barely seemed to notice his reunion with the ground. He wrapped an arm around Lovino’s leg and pressed his cheek to the boy’s thigh. “ _Hold on_ …” he said in a heavy, sleepy voice.

_Fuck_! Lovino cursed. _He’s so much worse off than I expected. Just what did they do to him_?

His plan had been made with the assumption that Antonio would be conscious, that he would _fight_ , because, well, no one had seen him _un_ able to fight before. No one had ever seen him so physically damaged. The dread pirate Antonio Fernández Carriedo did not fail or faint, and he had never lost a fair fight for as long as his crew had known him. He was strong and fierce and fearless, and someone Lovino had always been able to rely on, even in the direst of circumstances. He had had to be the brave one for so long.

“It’s okay,” Lovino repeated, gently patting Antonio’s head. His hair was sticky, his curls crusted with juice of some kind, but the boy didn’t care. He brushed a few locks off of Antonio’s forehead, and said with more confidence: “I’m here.”

Antonio murmured, trusting Lovino, and Lovino set to work. He pulled a stonemason’s tool from his pocket and began removing the nails that bolted the gate to the wall.

It wasn’t easy. The iron was rusted and Lovino had to throw his entire weight into his work, twisting his body and pulling with all of his strength. One-by-one, the nails came loose until only the middle one remained.

A bell began to toll.

Lovino froze; Antonio whined.

_An alarm._

Lovino didn’t know if the unconscious guard had been discovered or if it was Antonio’s escape, but someone, somewhere was sounding the alarm.

Lovino redoubled his efforts, prying frantically at the last nail that would not budge.

“ _Hey_!” someone shouted. “ _Here_! _The prisoner is escaping_!”

Lovino placed himself in front of Antonio and raised his epée in self-defence. “Don’t—” he began, but the two men attacked.

It was the first real swordfight Lovino had ever been in, the first time he had ever faced a real enemy and felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his shoulders. This time when he struck, he would strike to kill, because if he didn’t then he and Antonio would both die. No longer did he imagine himself an actor on-stage; no longer did he cast himself in the role of dashing hero. Instead of theatrics, a calm assuredness settled over him and he could see the men clearly: their balance, their footwork, the timing of their attacks, and he countered it all. His body moved habitually, dodging and parrying and attacking in a flurry of light, fast attacks that surprised the guards and sent them sprawling.

_This is—easy_! he realized. Compared to dueling Antonio and the crew of _El Escape_ , the guards were novices.

He leapt right, and then left, leading both frantic men in a deadly dance until, finally, he struck a fatal blow. One of the guards cried-out and collapsed. Lovino turned to finish the second, when—

_Huck_ —!

The corset constricted his insides, choking him. He couldn’t take a breath, couldn’t fill his lungs. He wavered and his feet went out from under him. He stumbled, barely managing to avoid the guard’s sword as he clawed at the corset laces, desperately trying to breathe. He fell to his knees. The guard’s sword came down—

—and clanged off steel. _Sha-ring_!

Antonio stood over Lovino holding the dead man’s discarded sword in his hand, his green eyes burning with a vengeful fire. Panting and covered in blood, he looked like a walking dead man, himself, but he seemed to forget that as he stabbed out with a strangled growl. He threw his remaining strength into the attack and pierced the guard right through his chest cavity and knocking him hard to the ground.

Lovino saw it happen in his peripheral vision, which was going fuzzy.

“T-T-Toni—” he choked, tugging at the corset laces to no avail. _Help_! he mouthed.

“Hold still,” said Antonio, trading the guard’s sword for the slender epée. A moment later, he sliced through the laces, freeing Lovino, who rolled over gasping.

Once he had caught his breath, he ripped off the destroyed corset and pulled up his shirt. The bones had dug grooves into his skin where they squeezed his waist, leaving long, purple bruises that were tender to the touch. Lovino frowned, then looked up at Antonio with a rueful grin.

“I don’t think I’ll try crossdressing again, if it’s all the same to you.”

Antonio smiled in sympathy, his eyes softening and his lids heavy once more.

The sound of metal boot-heels on stone alerted them to an approaching group of guards, many more this time, which spurred Lovino back into action. He hobbled back to the culvert and removed the last nail, then tugged at it, expecting it to swing off its hinges, but it didn’t. It rattled, but something on the inside was holding it in place.

“ _Lovi_!” Antonio gasped.

“ _There they are_!” someone shouted.

“ _Fuck_!” Lovino cursed. “There’s a fucking latch on the inside! I can’t fucking reach it!” He tried to force his fingers between the bars, but it was too narrow and the latch was too deep.

“Leave it!” said Antonio, pulling at Lovino’s shirt. “We have to run!”

Run? No. They would never make it out alive if they ran. The fort would be in lockdown now, all of the gates closed, all of the exits blocked. If they didn’t make it the sea, they were as good as dead.

Antonio took up both broadswords and placed himself protectively in front of Lovino. Lovino clenched his epée and felt a rush of exhilaration and desperation.

_If we die_ , he thought, swallowing his fear, _we die together._

Swords clashed, steel-on-steel ringing sharp and harsh. Lovino was forced back as he struck, the lightweight of his sword and body unable to withstand the onslaught of so many bigger threats. He nearly lost his epée as it was harmlessly deflected, his wrists snapping back in pain. That’s when he realized that it was too small. That _he_ was too small and weak to do any damage in a mêlée of soldiers. His back hit the culvert and an embarrassing squeak escaped him; the epée pinged off the metal. He coughed, winded, but it gave him an idea. He shoved the epée’s thin blade into the narrow opening of the culvert and maneuvered it frantically, hooking the latch inside. He yanked upward and it released with a soft clatter that went unheard in the mêlée. Then the gate fell off with a much louder noise.

“ _Toni_!”

Lovino whipped around to grab Antonio, only to find the Spaniard fighting desperately for his and Lovino’s lives. His teeth were bloody and his eyes were crazed as he held off the guards, but he was losing. He was dying.

Lovino pulled the wooden break free of the wagon’s wheel spoke and then grabbed Antonio by the shoulders. He yanked him backwards, nearly toppling them both, but managed to avoid the wagon, which rolled heavily forward, crashing into a couple of guards and blocking their retreat. It happened fast, and the guards recovered fast, but it gave Lovino enough time to push Antonio into the tunnel and crawl in behind him. He hefted the gate back into place and slid his epée through the bars to jam it closed. A moment later, a bullet pinged off the metal, but Lovino barely heard it. His entire being was running on adrenaline and fear and focused on only one thing: saving Antonio.

“Keep going! Just a little further!” he urged.

“ _Lovi_ …” Antonio’s voice was a laboured whisper. Shouts and gunshots echoed in the narrow stone chamber.

“ _Go_!” Lovino yelled.

With one final burst of strength, he pushed Antonio out of the culvert and into the sloshing sea below. It was dark and sludgy with refuge, but Lovino wasted no time diving in after Antonio, who gasped and flailed for a moment before going under. Lovino hit the water with a painful _smack_!

“I’m sorry!” he gasped, swimming to Antonio’s floundering side. “Hold onto me. I’m so sorry, Toni—please don’t die!” He eased Antonio onto his back and kicking his legs madly to keep them both afloat. Antonio sputtered a little, but his eyes were closed and his body was limp. Lovino scanned the open water, but it was too dark and foggy to see waiting longboat.

_Where are they_? he worried. A wave crashed over his head and he swallowed a mouthful of seawater, using his own submerged body to buoyed Antonio. At least the searchlights hadn’t spotted them yet, but they couldn’t hide in the water forever. Lovino could already feel himself sinking, struggling to keep his own head above water, let alone Antonio’s. He stayed as close to the cliffs as he dared, but the rocks were rough and slick and offered no support. They only scraped Lovino’s skin.

_I can’t do this. I can’t do this_ , he struggling, swallowing more water. _I’m not going to give up now_! _I can do this_! _I—I—_

Finally, he saw it: a small green light coming toward him through the fog. The longboat. His crew.

“HERE!” Lovino screamed.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, funny story... I thought I had posted this epilogue weeks ago and only realized this morning that I hadn't. My sincerest apologies to everyone who has been patiently waiting for this final update. The world is a weird place right now and I just completely forgot about my dear Spamano boys. n_n"

**COAST OF SPAIN**

**1740**

Bright morning sunlight filtered in through the diamond windowpanes, painting the captain's bed gold. Antonio gazed down at the beautiful boy lying beside him, wearing nothing but a threadbare shirt and a summer tan. He brushed his knuckles gently across the artful, angular face and then through silky chocolate-brown hair. A deep sigh and a sleepy hum of contentment was his reward. Antonio smiled.

_How did it come to this_? _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_.

He was supposed to leave Italy behind, all of it. But it had followed him.

Lovino’s face was young and vulnerable in sleep, deceptively so, for he was no longer the spoiled lordling he had once been. Now, he was a sailor—a pirate—and a man. The proof was in his baring, the way he moved and spoke; the way he held himself, like a man whose confidence was no longer feigned, but real. It was in his intellect, not only of the classroom, but of the world now, as well. It was in the respect and loyalty he had earned from the crew, who no longer regarded him as the cabin-boy, or simply as the captain’s lover, but as a man in his own right, a superior officer and a friend. He was still passionate and unpredictable, but capable now too, and as beautiful and dangerous as a wolf—inside _and_ outside of their private cabin.

_I shouldn’t be doing this_ , Antonio thought, but it was a distant, meaningless thing now. _I shouldn’t be feeling this_ _way._

But he did. He always had. In one way or another, he had always loved Lovino, and he always would.

It had been three months since _El Escape_ left Italy and returned to the Spanish coast. After seeing Feliciano safely home and bidding him a heartfelt farewell—hugs and kisses and happy, smiling tears and best wishes—Lovino had captained the ship throughout her slow, cautious journey, travelling only by night. Antonio's broken body had been on bedrest for much of the first month, prescribed sleeping, eating, and washing regularly by the doctor and the stubborn acting-captain. Antonio had been unhappy about it, but couldn't do much to the contrary, and didn't mind the fussing nearly as much as he pretended to. Selfish, perhaps, but he liked knowing that Lovino was worried about him; he liked knowing the Italian _wanted_ to take care of him, and, indeed, he felt very well cared for. Lovino stayed by Antonio's side for the entire duration of his long, painful recovery, leaving only to meet with Miguel about the ship’s course or management.

"I'm not leaving," Lovino had said the day Antonio regained consciousness. He had been sitting at Antonio's bedside, holding his hand. The declaration was decisive and matter-of-fact. "You want me here just as much as I want to be here," he said. "We need each other, Toni."

Antonio couldn't argue, so he smiled and squeezed Lovino's hand. Then a wave of nausea had overwhelmed him and he spent the next three hours gagging and vomiting.

Later, they had had a different conversation. Lovino had wanted to know why, _how_ Antonio had been caught by the navy. "You've never been careless," he began, but Antonio interrupted with a weak bark of laughter.

"I've _always_ been careless, Lovi. I've always been reckless. It's not me that changed, it was you. I swore to myself never to put you in danger... and I failed so many times," he added, hanging his head. "I'm sorry. Even when I try to avoid trouble I just... can't. It finds me. Or, maybe I find it. I always have

"After you left—" Lovino glared at him, so he rephrased. "After I left you in Italy, I wasn't well. Miguel has probably told you—fuck, they've _all_ probably told you," he said, implying the crew, "and they're right. I was a bad captain. I was selfish and angry and... heartbroken."

Lovino took his hand, rubbing the pads of his soft fingers across Antonio's scarred knuckles.

"I found him."

"Who?"

"I told you about the men who hurt Francis. I told you I hunted them all, except one. Well, after I left you, I found him and I went after him. It was a stupid, reckless mistake, but I wasn't myself at the time. I didn't care about myself, my crew-- _nothing_ mattered anymore. I thought I'd lost you, Lovi. I thought, if I finally avenged Francis, if I finished what I set out to do all those years ago, I wouldn't care if I died. I thought it would be worth it, but..." Antonio swallowed and his hands tightened around Lovino's. "When I was waiting for death in that cell, I was scared,” he said softly, sharing his most shameful secret. “I thought I was prepared to die, thought I would meet it with a proud, calm heart and my head held high, but I was wrong. When the time came, I wasn't accepting or prepared. I wasn’t brave. I was fucking scared, because I _didn't_ want to die. I wanted my life, and my ship and crew, and you, Lovino. I wanted you so bad in hurt worse than everything. I would've given anything just to see you one last time."

"And then you did," said Lovino gently.

Antonio smiled a little. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was already dead.

"I owe you my life, Lovino," he said, solemn once more. "But then, my life has always been yours. And so has my heart, if you still want it."

Rather than reply verbally, Lovino leant forward and kissed Antonio. "I love you, Toni. I always have and I always will. So, please,” he begged, pressing his forehead to Antonio’s, “don’t hate yourself for wanting to live.”

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other in a safe, loving embrace. It was Antonio who eventually broke the stillness:

“I want to be the man you deserve, Lovino, _cariño_. And I will, I promise. But there’s still something I need to finish first.”

“No,” said Lovino.

“I _have_ to finish it, Lovi. That man—that _devil._ I'm _so close_ to finishing it. I need to find him."

"No," Lovino repeated, pulling away. His voice was firm, but his eyes were pleading. "Toni, you don't need to do anything. Just let it go, okay?"

"Lovi," Antonio's voice was soft in apology. "I can't just let it go. Those men did horrible things, things you can't even imagine. They deserve—"

"I know," Lovino interrupted, rubbing the Spaniard’s hand to ease the tension. "And they will be punished. The wicked always are. But it's not up to you. It's not your fault and not your responsibility. If you go after him now, you won't come back the same man. You'll be lost."

“But… I’ve waited so long.”

“No.” This time, Lovino cupped Antonio’s face in his hands. “You’ve _suffered_ for so long. You don’t deserve that and neither does Francis. You need to put this mission to rest, Toni. Put it behind you and move on, because as long as you hold onto this hatred, you’ll never be happy and you’ll never be free. Killing those men won’t change what happened in the past, but it _will_ destroy your future if you let it. So please, for me—for _yourself_ —let it go.”

_Let it go_? Antonio thought. How could he just let it go? How did someone just one day decide he was going to forget his past? He couldn’t—could he? But the man Antonio loved was asking him to let it go and maybe _that’s_ what made this different. If Antonio had to choose between revenge or losing Lovino again—well, it was the easiest choice in the world. He would do anything for Lovino Vargas. His greatest weakness. His greatest strength. He wasn’t fool enough to think it would be easy, but for Lovino, _with_ Lovino’s help, then maybe he could do it. Maybe he could _let it go_ and start to heal. More than anything he wanted to be the man Lovino deserved; the man he saw in Lovino’s eyes when Lovino looked at him, exactly the way he was looking at him now. And all he had to do was choose love instead of revenge, choose hope instead of despair, choose the future instead of his past. Choose happiness and try to believe that he was worth it, that _he_ , the dread pirate Antonio Fernández Carriedo, _deserved_ it.

Slow and scared, but bravely, he said: “ _Okay_.”

Lovino smiled in relief. “I just want you to be happy, Toni. I want us to be happy together. And I know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to live with, but—”

“Don’t change,” Antonio interrupted. He took Lovino’s hand and kissed it. “Please, _mi tesoro_ , I want the real, honest Lovino Vargas, in all of your imperfect glory. I can’t give you the life you were born to, but I _can_ give you all of me. Everything I have and everything I am, is yours. I want us to do this loving and living thing together.”

“Me, too,” Lovino confessed, putting his arms around Antonio and hugging him. “I want all of that, too.”

It had been five years since Antonio had found the Italian boy stowed away in his cabin. Four long, stressful, tumultuous, _wonderful_ years.

_You’re not supposed to be here_ , _Lovino_ , Antonio thought now, watching him sleep. Gently, he finger-combed the Italian’s silky hair, pushing it back to reveal his beautiful face. _It would be so much easier if you weren’t._

_Easier_ , _but not better._

“You’re my most precious treasure,” he whispered, brushing his lips to Lovino’s ear.

“And you…” said Lovino, yawning as he opened his eyes, “need to let me sleep. It’s _your_ fault I’m so tired,” he added, unable to hide a sly smile.

“And I take full responsibility for that,” Antonio purred, crawling between Lovino’s legs. He slid his hands up the slender lengths and kissed the inside of the Italian’s warm thigh.

“Well then,” said Lovino, grinning now. He dragged a finger flirtatiously down Antonio’s cheek even as he pressed his legs to Antonio’s sides. “What are you waiting for?”

“You want me _now_?” Antonio teased.

Lovino’s eyes were soft with love. “ _Always_.”

Later, they were dozing in the golden sunlight, exhausted and satisfied, when a knock sounded at the cabin’s door, calling them forth. They barely dressed before stepping out on-deck—Lovino, barefoot and wearing Antonio’s shirt and belted trousers; Antonio, wearing trousers and a dark, brown tan—and climbed to the helm, where Miguel was using a spyglass. He saw them, pointed, and reported:

“Private vessel on the horizon. Portuguese. She’s moving slow and sitting low in the water.”

_Prey_ , said Antonio’s instincts. _A thrill_! said his insatiable desire for danger.

“ _Hoist the mains_!” he and Lovino shouted simultaneously. They paused to look at each other in surprise, then laughed along with the crew.

“ _Yes_ , _Captain_!” they said, saluting them both.

Lovino moved easily into the circle of Antonio’s arms, back-to-chest at the helm, both of them looking out at the distant, golden horizon. He rested his hands comfortably over Antonio’s arms, which were wound securely around his waist.

“Ready for another adventure, my love?” said Antonio, bowing his head to Lovino’s.

Lovino leant back and kissed his lover’s jaw. “With you, I’m ready for anything.”

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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